Liberation through Pages

I read Alan Lightman's "Einstein's Dreams" when I was a freshman in high school. I remember reading through the pages and feeling absolutely enlightened and enthralled on behalf of his unique writing style. I don't think the book "saved" me (I took this question quite literally), but I do know that I received the reading with great admiration; it completely changed the way I read books. I began to understand the importance of deconstruction when analyzing texts. I also noted the importance of deconstructing life. Lightman's work questioned facets beyond what I had lived with up to that point. I was absorbed by the concepts Lightman poured onto the pages. The book is stylized as Einstein's personal journal, in which he documents his dreams. Each journal entry is dated and separated into different conceptual worlds Einstein may have dreamed of when developing his theories on physics.

Feedback, Por Favor

Hello ya'll. Here's the four page short story that was due in class yesterday. Just felt like posting it here, I'm looking for feedback. What doesn't work for you, what does, what you'd like to see change... whatever it may be, it'll help me along. I'm looking to eventually turn this into something more... Thanks guys :)

Under the Sun


Her skin is caked with makeup. She looks like dough. They put too much lipstick on her. I don’t think I ever saw her wear lipstick before. I always told her she was too pretty for that crap. I bend over her casket and smear her red lips with my fingers, trying to rid her face of this superficial perversion of beauty. A firm grip on my arm tugs me away from Christine and whispers something in my ear. The words try to beckon me to a couch across the room, but I resist. Her face is smothered with the red coloring.
A young man begins to escort me and the others into an adjacent room filled with luscious plastic plants. Another attendant rushes by me to aid the movement. He nudges my shoulder and his hand falls to my lower back. I meet his eyes beneath a creased brow. He closes the mahogany doors and leaves me floating.
I am rocked through the waves of bodies. They examine me and hug me, with red eyes and sorry faces. Some of them are familiar, but I don’t know most of them. A lot of kids are here from Christine’s school, some of her teachers too.
I want to get away and find a quiet spot, just to be alone, away from this plaintive atmosphere. I make a mild escape to the restroom. It smells like baby powder. She was seven pounds and nine ounces when she came into this world, through me. There is an “Employees Must Wash Hands before Returning to Work” sign above the sink. They call this building a home. I look in the mirror, and try to rearrange my hair. Forget it. I dig into my purse for another Paxil, my 20 milligram friend.
The paper towel dispenser isn’t working so I shake my hands, sending drops of water onto the wallpaper. I watch them leak down through the floral pattern.
I return to the plastic jungle and moments later, the doors leading into the viewing room swing open. I can see the casket from where I’m standing. I am escorted back to my post by Christine. The attendants have cleaned the mess I made. Her lips are only a subtle rose tone; better. Her hair looks great. It’s alive and glistens with light from the sconces on the wall. A pink satin ribbon streams down the side of her face, embracing her cheeks. Last Tuesday, she burst into the front door and joined me in the living room, talking about a new crush in her Physics class. I knew she deserved better from the way she described him, but kept this out of our conversation.
The carpet looks clean, but its red color is faded from hundreds of feet that have trodden on the dye. I trace the paths of the carpet and walk into a separate room with a lengthy mahogany staircase leading to a lower level. The small room is quiet and filled with photographs; portraits of families who have probably made this service thrive throughout the years. I walk timidly around the room, catching the faces in the pictures. I spend a longer amount of time viewing a family portrait dated “1997”, which is engraved on a small piece of metal; bottom center of the frame. All but one face smiles: a middle aged man with pale skin.
The stairs began to creak; I couldn’t see anything walking up them though. I slouch back into the nearest corner and hold my breath, hopeful that my reality will be breeched by a supernatural being. A hand uses the banister as leverage to every step, coming closer. I see that this is not what I was hoping for.
A woman with shoulder length black hair and a plain face has stepped onto the top step, and stares at me. I shrug a little deeper into the corner. She minutely shakes her head and glides into the hallway, dragging the red dye along with her feet. I continue scanning the pictures framed on the wall; back to the ’97 family. I wonder about the man separate from the rest. I feel my mouth becoming dry and notice it is hanging open.
I need to be outside. I wander out of the room and around a corner, into a hallway. I find a door; it must lead to an outdoor backyard or something of the like. I push it open and in no time at all, a loud siren sounds throughout the building. I look down at the handle, and much to my dismay, I read “Warning! Alarm will sound if door is opened.” I walk through the door and find myself in a parking lot.
Pools of water have formed in potholes from yesterday’s rainfall. Gasoline swirls on the surfaces; so festive. A breeze nips at my legs and crawls up my skirt. I don’t recall where my car is parked. I try to remember the traffic patterns and turn signals I used earlier, as I fumble for the keys in my purse.
The alarm fills the funeral home, it leaks out through the windows and into the air. I look back at the building. People are piling onto the front porch, spilling onto the sidewalk.
There is a back exit from the lot onto a side street; this is the route I was hoping for. My keys have found their way into my hand and I stab the lock on the door. Swinging the door open emits cracking sounds from the inner suspensions, I’ve never worried about fixing them until now; they’ve never sounded like this before. I hit my head on the doorframe and crash back into the driver’s seat.
The steering wheel has a little shake to it, as the engine is set into ignition. I look at the side of the funeral home, through my dirty windshield. My eye catches the ‘97 man staring at me from a window on the second story. I want to know him, so I wave. I don’t get any kind of response, but his gaze is fixed on me.
The alarm sounds muffled. I turn the radio; I haven’t turned the dial since she set it. As the music forms over the airwaves, words drift through the air,
“Just a smile would lighten everything. Sexy Sadie, she's the latest and the greatest of them all. She made a fool of everyone, Sexy Sadie. However big you think you are”
I pull out of the parking lot and drift onto other roads.
As I merge onto the state highway, I turn my head to look at the passenger seat. He smiles at me and asks to change the station. I don’t answer him, but he does it anyway.
The lines on the road seem endless, and I’m considering the odds of my death. The clouds have removed themselves from view and I am left alone, under the sun.

Yummy.

Fiction is by far one of the most freeing styles to write in. My opinion of course. Writing fiction is one of my passions. No shame.
Everything about it is captivating. Detail, form, style, characterization, etc. (The list goes on). As the author of a piece takes readers through an alternate twist of their world. The familiarization of readers with characters builds as the story continues, then by the time the conflict occurs, one is able to sympathize. An actual love has been established for the imaginary.
This thought alone gives me chills! It is absolutely amazing.

Conflict must occur in fiction (if you want people to take interest). People can relate to conflict, we breath conflict and resolution. These are lessons we've been taught since kindergarten.

FOR EXAMPLE: Way back when...
Jimmy knocked over my lego tower. CONFLICT
In return, I revealed to the class that Jimmy wet his pants a few days ago. RESOLUTION.

okay. well i guess that's not the best example. but you see why i was going there. Right?

Reviving the forgotten

The word prompt is defined as: "to move to action, to assist by suggesting or saying the next words of something forgotten or imperfectly learned." I find this Merriam Webster definition to be extremely relevant to the context within the poetry prompts. These are in fact exercises used to revive images stored in the memory, in order to complete a work. I have three prompts I found listed below:

Poetry Prompt - List ten items that you would buy at an auction, or tag sale. Write a poem including those items. You may choose to title your poem, "Things Found At An Auction". Variation, have someone else create a list for you.
-By tossing in the list of objects, one is able to draw upon past relations to the items. I really enjoy the idea of having another individual come up with the objects, it makes the exercise become organic and less biased.

Poetry Prompt - Write three shaped-verse poems. Shaped-verse poems are a form of "pattern poetry", where the letters, words, and lines of the poem are arranged to form a picture/outline of the subject of the poem. An example is a poem in the shape of a Christmas tree discussing your thoughts about Christmas itself, family traditions, and so on.
-I remember writing one of these in the third grade, I'm pretty sure my image formed a pidgeon of some sort. I like the idea though, linking words through visuals...

Prose Prompt - Writing the known and the unknown. Close your eyes, let a landscape appear. Allow yourself to view the landscape, taking note of texture and mood. Next, pretend that you have a rose petal in your hand. Feel it between your fingers and give it color and scent. Allow yourself time to make it a realistic experience. Now go back to creating your landscape, again focusing on details and texture. Continue writing about your landscape.
-This really draws upon the unconscious, I like! This is where the good stuff lies. I'm definetely going to try this one out. I also enjoy the shift from the landscape to a small unit of weight (rose petal), and back to the larger mass we know as earth.

By tuning into our emotions, words will spew out of the mind. Our images will translate so well, and these promps will make them even better. It surprises me that most humans have blocked off this ability. Prompts can help get us there. Amen to that.

Confound me, James!

"The only demand I make of my reader, is that he should devote his whole life to reading my works." This statement is brutally honest. I'd really like to believe the man had a little more humility than what is presented here. Perhaps this statement was meant to cause some type of cataclysmic reaction within the literary world.

Countless scholars and literary critics have been baffled by his writing. Finnegans Wake is considered to be one of the author's more controversial pieces (completed as the sequel to Ulysses). When Joyce was asked why the style was so difficult, he replied, "To keep the critics busy for three hundred years." So far, he's kept them busy for over a hundred.

I came across a random link that brought me to erotic love letters written by Joyce to his lover Nora. I read through a couple of the letters, and questioned if it was morally correct to read them. These are very explicit. I really can't believe that someone had the balls to publish them in a book. Feeling snoopy?
Go here.

The man had no shame, and I applaud his methods. His writing continues to challenge generations through an ever shifting society. Without a challenge we accept defeat.

Five Creative Sites:

Five creative sites, eh? Okay. Well off the top of my head, NO SEARCHING AROUND FOR THIS ONE, is the magnificent website of Alex Grey. This famed painter has developed a very unique style, that places an emphasis on universal energy in the individual. His paintings are breathtaking and extremely, well... extreme. I had the honor of meeting him in the COSM (Chapel of Sacred Mirrors), his art gallery. The website I've provided as a link here provides many of his paintings and drawings as well as future events scheduled at COSM, located in Manhattan (address is on the website, if you're interested in visiting). I suggest that everyone go there soon, becuase it will be closing this year and relocating to upstate New York.

The next website I condemn you to is http://opieortiz.com/. Opie Ortiz is a tatoo artist that is most famous for his artwork via Sublime. The site includes a plethora of links to his artwork, a flipbook, and a contact /schedule link (just in case you're willing to spend hundreds, possibly thousands, of dollars on official ink from the man himself).

And now, a link to CHARLES BUKOWSKI! Love the man. Providing faithful readers with manuscripts, words, and FBI files (saw that one coming).
!(upside down) Venga aqui senores: http://bukowski.net/ ! OLE. Spend time here!

Want some eye candy? Go here. The website you'll find is full of it. David LaChapelle is on the forefront of pop culture, keeping up with all the controversy, and creating a lot of it.

Salvador Dali, the genius painter. His work (and more) can be viewed here. The gallery is actually organized in chronological order too: http://www.dalinet.com/.

Enjoy!

Abstraction exercise developed into Poem:

I am an Atticus (atlas moth).

Travel underground, in this fluorescent lit train.
The rails rapidly shift and it reeks of piss.
A blind man yielding poles, nurtures a paper cup.
Softly drop in lint and change from your pocket, and watch them slither to the bottom of his elixir.
Walk hastily towards the street and dwell on starving children withering away; their frail dying bodies.
An old man falls on the crosswalk, buckling under grocery bags filled with condiments.
Retrieve the goods for him, and acknowledge his eyes as they emerge into the universe.
Run home to capture some kind of end; battery acid pumps through your veins.
A bottle of gin lay empty on the table.
The last drops from the rim slide down legs, as I caress the muscles of my lover.

The words in bold are lines from the exercise.

Thank you, Abstraction.

When I closed my eyes and heard the word "rage", images shot through my mind. The abstraction exercise was one of the most powerful writing exercises I have ever done. As strange as it sounds, I felt as if I were in a hypnotic, dream-like kind of place. It fascinates me to focus on the subconscious mind, it has too much to offer, so much to tell; which is probably why we choose to ignore it most of the time. Translating the vivid images I saw onto paper was simply remarkable. The words that were used in the exercise (rage, generosity, control, and charm) offered a world of words through images.
We link ourselves to words, and I suppose, that they have linked their meanings to ourselves as well. The word generosity conveyed to me, the visual of: change gently dropping to the bottom of a dixie cup held by a homeless hand, covered by tattered and frayed gloves.
When reading poetry, it always irks me when the poet inserts words such as happy or beautiful...by abstracting images from these foundation words, one is sure to create a more impactful depiction of their point (if there is one...).
We can choose to listen to each word, and expand on them specifically. In this sense, I believe it can make the individual (willing to do so) become a better writer.

And now, kind folk, some Inspiration...

I had once belonged to a small private business college located in the heart of midtown Manhattan, called The Laboratory Institute of Merchandising (LIM. Under the school's logo in small print read, The College for the Business of Fashion). I am not sure why I chose to major in Visual Merchandising (which is basically the interior / exterior decor of stores) at some relatively unknown "Fashion School", but something did draw me into it (I'm still not quite sure what exactly this said "something" might've been...). All of the classes I was required to take bore me, my brain thirsted for an education that would stimulate my mind. Save for the one Creative Writing course I decided to enroll in during the spring semester of my Sophomore year.

For the hour and half this course kept me, twice a week, my adoration for writing grew. I knew that the only option I had at the time, in order to be happy was to transfer schools. My professor for this course was a freelance writer and taught at LIM on the side. My frustration with the school had become overwhelming. I spoke with my Creative Writing professor about this, and he told me that it was in my best interest to persue my desire (exactly what I needed to hear). I asked him if there were any great books he might be able to recommend to me. He gave me a list, and Lorrie Moore's "Self-Help" was one of the many he suggested. I read the book.

This piece of work came into my life at the perfect time. After reading "How to Become a Writer", I smiled. Any doubts I had within myself of not being able to succeed were washed away after this read. This piece made me sure of my decision to embarq with Writing as a new major. That summer, I finished up with LIM and graduated with an Associate's Degree in Applied Science (Fashion Merchandising). I transferred to Willy P in the fall and changed my major to English with a concentration in writing. This short story, written by one of my favorite authors Lorrie Moore, will perhaps serve as an inspiration to you as well. You can read the short story "How to Become a Writer" here.

If for some reason that link doesn't work, here is the url: http://www.ninetymeetingsinninetydays.com/lorriemooore.html


"Writers have no real area of expertise. They are merely generalists with a highly inflamed sense of punctuation." — Lorrie Moore