Random Freewrite 2: Week of 2/21/11

Trolley and the Ghouls

(Edited, prose version)

Only trolleys promised the ghouls, at night shut down from human touch, a free ride through the town and unregulated belly fills. They run silent from curtained crypts and sewer lanes, the ghouls, somewhat discombobulated. They discard the wilting peel of twice stretched dust in sunset hues and sift through firefly sieves butter-melting soft into the gibbous waning murk. They sweep at last against the lacquered frame of the trolley car, small eager bumps up the patterned steps into the air-fresh and cushioned cab.

With garbled growling, the engine spits on, coaxed by papers weighing coin. Inside the box, light flicks on, fluorescent sunlight without scorn. Disjointed clapping off and on. The ghouls unwind cheerfully as the trolley cab lurches forward on long-forgotten sidewinding tracks through backwoods streets and depot lanes. They jostle on, the trolley and the ghouls, who stretch and stretch resplendently under the fluorescent flecks. From gangling gnarls of fading whine--vague as April morning mist--they bloom to lucid joyous shifts of wail, no longer mist but structured bits of startling brawn, with face and fist and hair like twine.

Now through winding coffin lanes, they rove, where their cousin air weavers rush to and fro, and perchance too late to slow, making circus eyes and circus mouth to see the ghouls alive, up close. They gather ash and scatter dust, from moon's first yawn to moon's last gust. The trolley putters on till night concedes to dawn, when ghouls scatter back to curtained crypts and sewer lanes and trolley yields back to human will. For moon makes more soup than sun, and wails more kin than whine. So trolleys promise ghouls the night, to come to life, to wail in coffin lanes, to harvest the ghosts of the circus-brained, who pass from ash to ash again under the trolley wheels and return to form at night again, as ghouls to join the reaper's throng.

(This still needs a lot of work, clearly. I think it would be better as a short story than a poem or brief prose piece.)

Random Freewrite 1: Week of 2/21/11

Antoine Dodson Doodles in Art Class

(Edited Version)

Today was either cataclysmic or divine. My portrait mugs the Internet, and I reap the pixilation of my face. I’m an overblown meme, a bias breeder. Enunciation spins too fluently, twisting like honey off thorns. Precarious and out of bounds--they say--unaccountable to any dictionary of common cadence. Effeminate, I’m called. Hollywood’s old Sissy back in prime time luminosity. Woman-ish. Sexless sap’s pockmarked sketch, two-toned like an asymmetrical exhibit in a Top Model menagerie, cut loose for time, spectacle and confused design. Boneless face in bent motif. Backdraft hair. Intrepid teeth. A freefall crack binge high collage of limp wrists and neutered face. Biceps curving outside male intent, lips flailing loose of God’s blueprint--they say--like National Enquirer fathers giving milk. Ungainly gesticulations, maiming my father’s configuration. Flapping too much, too slack--they say--freefalling off my mother’s blush. Sexless sap’s self-portrait of gender bent in crayon-wobbled lines. Effeminate, I’m called. I’ve no textbook for a face but pockmarks, flail and gender print like leotards across tongue and dick. Effeminate, I lack title and precision--they say--and action figured me to familiar edge. Effeminate man--they say. Sissy fetters and muscle fail. Instant laugh and sharp recoil. But effeminate is not my name for me.

Paint me a face, Rembrandt, and interpret my cacophony.

Classmate Response: Week of 2/21/11

Surangi Perera: Antoine Dodson Poem


I thought it was a bold choice to write from the perpetrator's perspective. There is a lot of musicality to the phrasing which I particularly enjoyed, and some startling imagery, unexpected despite knowing this was the would-be-rapist's voice, that added enormous punch to the poem. The awareness that the narrator had in his fateful influence over Dodson's life was a fantastic end, just beautifully done. My critique would be that perhaps you could fit more context into the break between the narrator running for his life and the onrush of the news media and the narrator's reflection on Dodson, after the line that ends with "leaving my signature behind." Perhaps another line or two at the beginning or else a title referencing the fact that the perp is the narrator, would help to give the reader more context as well. Since I know the story, it works wonderfully for me, but someone who doesn't know the story might not get the same impact. Good job!

Reading Response 2: Week of 2/21/11

Word of Mouth

Philip Booth

"Evening"

I'm consistently drawn to the sparse poems more than to the wordy poems, and this was one of my favorites so far. I think what jumps out at me the most is the impact of the line breaks. It reminds me of what was said in class, how each line should be able to stand on its own. I love that some poems are formed so that not only do the lines as written hold narrative meaning, but how they break offers an additional, isolated interpretation. Sometimes, just with the placement of the line break, two lines that create a single sentence might have three different meanings: the original sentence, then the two lines as they break. Like Booth's lines here:

Except for having to finish the postcard he's almost

written his mother, the boy is happy. Watching him

pour more ketchup onto his salad, his father

invents another new face. The boy grins.

I just adore that in too many ways. The last line has an infectious charm by itself, and in context, it has another level of humor, pathos and deeper meaning. It reminds me of what Professor Ellison said to me once after class. I had mentioned that I feel comfortable writing from a "snapshot" point of view, one moment in time, and she reminded me that we should keep the outer edges of that snapshot in mind, so that even if the picture is a still shot, the content is alive. In a nutshell, that's how these line breaks work for me. The snapshots and the living image all work beautifully, both independently and together.

Reading Response 1: Week of 2/21/11

Writing Poetry

Chapter 11: Subject

Probably the thing I seem to struggle with the most in my own poetry is being abstract. Like I mentioned in a previous post, I tend to find myself latching onto defamiliarization in an effort to keep the poetry fresh, and in doing so, I end up being too abstract even though I am using more concrete words than not. What I'm discovering is that being specific is not always only about the words you choose, but how you use those words and into what context you put those words. "Subject" helped me see how an odd subject (like Bigfoot) could be treated in an understated fashion to deliver even more impact than had it been given all the bells and whistles that naturally seem drawn to such a fanciful topic. Magical realism seems to end up delivering the magical quality of the content without sacrificing anything to defamiliarization for the sake of the odd phrasing itself. Instead, the more blasé the delivery of the fantastical, the more emphasis seems to be granted to the fantastical element itself and less (comparatively) on the poet's voice. My poem "Game" and the one about the ghouls, in particular, suffer from my habitual misread of this element. The analysis of the different Death poems, as well as the Batman poem, helped me to see how I can use symbolism in context without being either too abstract or too prosey, and, more importantly, how I can ease understatement into the phrases I use to deliver the most impact for the given fantastical subject matter. As I lean towards genre writing, not only in my poetry but primarily in my prose, this will be a particularly helpful lesson to return to from time to time.

Junkyard Quotes: Week of 2/21/11

I was reading some of Jimmie Durham's poetry over the weekend, and I have some other junkyard quotes from earlier in the week, but I wanted to devote this post to him. I love his phrasing.

1.

"At the festival of remembering the dead, even armadillos and subway victims may dance in the sky."

2.

"Indian people still speak English as a second language, even if we no longer speak our own languages. That is the true meaning of illiteracy in a class society; one is not in control of the language one speaks."

3.

"Looking at old photographs of Geronimo,
I always get the feeling that he was going to shoot
the photographer."

4.

"The Indians of Brazil say that at first the duck
Was afraid of the river, and had a canoe made of clay.
But when the canoe was dissolved and he found
Himself in the river, he discovered he loved it."

5.

There is a drawing by Jimmie Durham in his book Columbus Day of a bird, and the description reads, "A loon calling stars down on his back." It's taken from a line in his poem, "A Woman Gave Me a Red Star to Wear on My Headband." He takes something very abstract and makes a gorgeous phrase out of it, a picture I can clearly see in my head even without the drawing.

Random Freewrite 2: Week of 2/14/11

Hiroshima

The crane calls me home. Hiroshima,

with my checkered mats of loose-leaf green,

I feed her in the snow and rain. Spring yields

and summer rains pelt my newborn rice into coin.

Aged farmers in pairs, in their married cadence

bent through years into jackknifed broken form,

turning newborn rice into coin.

They call me home. Hiroshima,

my pink petal silks in spring cobweb

all the patchwork market ways.

Folding willow trees line my streets

and sway like silk creased gowns.

Red bobbins and violet combs,

for black-haired bonnets in elegant form,

dress my daughters in wedding folds.

They blend into the August paper twists

folded up in rainbow stuttered steps.

—They said it was the rain.

They said it was the seeping wind.—

Once a year, remembrance of the bomb.

In good faith, West pardons her sons,

and mine are left blunt-edged, quiet.

My vertebrae stands upward bare

and breaks the blue-sealed sky catacomb,

like tree limbs sketch-mark the winter gray.

Sketch marks across rainbow-frosted grays,

paper twists of crane lining building bones.

Shadows burrowed in my yellowed ribs,

these cement shadow stairs, death-frosted

stairs famous to West for gawker's guilt.

I burrow in today, burrow out the casket wall

to sons and daughters buried too short, too young

under the atomic mushroom wing.

The remembrance of their ash lingers here, bare

through yellowed casket ribs and rainbow twists,

at once too anonymous and too precise.

The day only ends in breathing,

—once in, now out, again and out—

till night folds in and ribs unclench.

—I found it was the rain.

I found it was the culling wind.—

The crane calls me home from this.

With ruffled mask of grey-white rust

she feeds me in the rain, the winter rain

and carpets of snow unfolding across my vertebrae

to seal asleep until I begin again. Spring yields

and summer rains pelting newborn rice into coin.

The broken cadence of my farmers, aged in twos,

turning green rice carpets into coin.

I am as was, will be.

Of wet carton carpet greens,

pink cobweb grace and folding trees.

I lie awake

with my paper rainbow folded wings.

Random Freewrite 1: Week of 2/14/11

Epitaph for a Possum

Here lies a myopic mom

--unkindly evolved--

Hrududowned and done

Pancaked to memory

By the common barrage

Of shift-made squeals

And tactless gears.

Epitaph for a Flea

Here lies a Malingerer.

Hand-plucked ganglion

Pinched through.

Born without autonomy

And slain for it, too.

Classmate Response: Week of 2/14/11

Danita Pope: Random Impulse

Your propped pillow now sits wilting
From the remote, a sign only I can see flashes vacancy,
the word seeming to extend in the air just long enough for me to catch my breathe,
then its gone.
Now the TV stares back at me wondering if he can run thru the channels as fast as before.
I attempt to surf with your previous speed, but I am only a warm-up.

==========


This was a wonderful concise snapshot of one moment in the narrator's life. The sense of yearning was very sharp, a beautiful contrast to the soft sounds of the words and phrases used. I love that the pillow's wilting is from the remote, and I love the last line, but I am only a warm-up. What particularly stuck out at me was the image of signs that flash and vanish before we can fully read them; how this image of the flashing signs (a sight we're all familiar with) was tied to the feeling of something out of our grasp (which is a feeling we're all familiar with) was particularly well done. The voice is very distinct. I think the only constructive criticism I have is that I want to read more; just one line or a few words to deliver context would make it a little easier to get into the narrator's space. Good job!

Junkyard Quotes: Week of 2/14/11

1) The broad-backed hippopotamus

Rests on his belly in the mud;

Although he seems so firm to us

He is merely flesh and blood.

-T. S. Eliot, "The Hippopotamus"

There's a great deal more to this poem than just these opening lines, more meaning than what I'm remarking on here, but how he phrased the firmness of the hippopotamus. So often as an aspiring writer, I've been told to place my efforts in something more worthwhile, more tangible and of the "real world" instead of my imagination, and I constantly feel that the output of our imagination, our intellect, our emotions, all of those intangible things are what last long after the physical crust is aged and gone.

2) Nearby, across the river, a lark had begun to twitter and climb. It was morning. A blackbird called one or two deep, slow notes and was followed by a wood pigeon. Soon they were in a gray twilight and could see that the stream bordered the further edge of the wood. On the other side lay open fields.

-Richard Adams, Watership Down

There are some passages in published fiction that feel so perfectly placed, so understatedly set up and gracefully delivered, that they stand out at me even more so than passages where great dialogues or epic events occur. This chapter's end in Watership Down is one that is so simple, yet given the events that came before and the events that will follow, there is such a strong sense of the story's full circle actively in play that it gives me an enormous sense of satisfaction to experience it with Hazel, the point-of-view character. Writers like Adams illustrate how rewarding the simplest lines and dialogue can be, when deftly placed to build character, plot and theme.

3) His face was that of one who has undergone a long journey.

-The Epic of Gilgamesh

This is such a simple line, yet it evokes such a great visual, such a strong sense of identity.

4) What is now proved was once only imagin'd.

-William Blake, "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell"

There is more about this line that I love than I can ever express. It will never be made obsolete.

5) There, in the tin factory, in the first moment of the atomic age, a human being was crushed by books.

-John Hersey, Hiroshima.

I've had this book for years. This is the last line of the first chapter. I can't quite pinpoint why this has stayed with me.

Reading Responses: Week of 2/14/11

Writing Poetry

Chapter 9: Voice

This chapter felt like it was written to answer the biggest problem I keep having with my poetry. I think I end up too concerned with the because that I end up avoiding it to a fault, to where the meaning becomes so ambiguous that the story and voice of the poem is lost. Part of the problem might be that I'm too concerned with what we discussed very early in class: defamiliarization. Between trying to find new ways to describe familiar things and naturally more attracted to understatement than to broad expression in storytelling, I think I fell headlong into the trap of being too vague and formless. This chapter was a good illustration of why a failure of clarity has so much negative impact, as well as how to weave the meaning into the poem without spelling it out. I particularly liked the illustration of because as a set-up question in the title or premise, that the bulk of the poem itself provides an answer to, in context. I need to try to work that into my writing a little. Even something like a title can help put the poem into context.

Writing Poetry

Chapter 10: Style

The part of this chapter which most impacted me goes hand-in-hand with Chapter 9, continuing its illustration of the delicate balance of becausing. The statement (which seems like an automatic truth once it's said but I wouldn't have thought to phrase it that way initially) that irony is dialogical meant more to me than anything else in the chapter. It helps me put into concrete context the statements made in Chapter 9, that unless there is a dialogue that the reader actively participates in, at least to anticipate where the poem is going rather than to have it spelled out, the impact of the poem will be that of a monologue over the telephone rather than two voices being reactive to one another. This helps me rein in the over-the-top defamiliarization, to be reminded that the reader should be given the benefit of the doubt to be intelligent enough to get it but that I have to express the poem so that it doesn't become a private joke that gets crickets in response but that an adequate amount of information is being shared so that both participants "get" it.

Random Freewrite 1: Week of 2/7/11

The laundry thumps. Almost done.

I remember this, the litany of decontamination.

My voice never raised but your heart would faint.

I remember our most romantic evenings

spent in sterile hospital cells of your vacillating puberty.

The buzzer’ll ring soon. Not soon enough.

Cleaning feels maternal somehow,

cold-pressed onto me like prehistoric fossils of mistake.

Some men hug not to hold but to burrow into muscle

like ticks bloated on strength.

They say things change to remain the same.

I’ve got towels to fold yet, and a bed to make.

When the laundry's done, I'll be good to go,

as well rid of you as of static hell clingwrap sheets.

(The first line was all I got done in the classroom prompt. Then I spoke with Professor Edwards after and took her fantastic line "prehistoric fossil of mistake" and tried to wrap my feelings about this breakup into something that felt a part of outdated gender roles to me. He based his proposal on the fact that I cleaned his house for him once, from top to bottom. So that's where this came from. There's probably more I could go into; I need to work on expanding and then stripping down.)

Reading Response 2: Week of 2/7/11

Writing Poetry
"Subject"


This was probably the chapter that prompted the most from me, not necessarily in terms of prolific output but in thought and reconsideration of my writing process. I was struck by all three of the methods described, and feel compelled to try them. The juggling method, in particular, seemed that it might be helpful to me in providing context for some of the poetry I've already written for class. I think a lot of my poetry lacks a clear "voice" and some sense of context, which obscures the story and meaning of the poems. I need to work on that, and I think this chapter is going to help me a great deal. I tried some juggling with the breakup poem for class, and I'm not satisfied with the result, but I know I can go back and work on it again and again to get it just right. Perhaps another one of the methods will work better. The beauty of writing poetry, as they keep stressing and as I keep learning, is that nothing is a "finished product." I don't have to worry about getting it exactly right, because putting a period on it would be making it sterile and obsolete. Poems have to be dynamic and fluid. I think I'm finally getting that.

Reading Response 1: Week of 2/7/11

Word of Mouth
Russell Edson
"The Fall"


I loved each and every one of his poems so much so that I've been compelled to buy a book of his poetry. (It looks amazing!) What I love about his work (particularly "The Fall") is the simplicity of phrasing. There is so much wit and irony delivered in such an understated way, not belaboring the point he's trying to make (a trap I fall into with my prose freewrites) but delivering the punch gracefully, even affectionately. I love, also, that he's not just about the "punchline" (as Professor Ellison and I discussed on Thursday, when I asked where was the critical place to have the theme clarified: the setup at the beginning or the closure at the end). Edson's work can be read over and over with only richer enjoyment and appreciation. He's almost an understated poet version of Tim Burton's general vibe.

Classmate Response: Week of 2/7/11

Angela Lewis: Random Impulse

Throw your body against the machine

Disempowerment and voicelessness
what does that even mean?
make it stop
The man he yaks
half honest lies
maniac
Get on top of the man and stop him in his tracks
Yelling and fussing
attempts made mute by Smartassery
Put some ass into it
Halfassery
We're all bored and oversexed
So we play with puppets
Tugging on twine
What happens when you throw the puppet into the machine
We're all just a bunch of monkeys
Monkey wrenched
Wrench off with brute force i beg you
Throw your body against the machine


==========


I really love the flow of sound in this poem, how the words are crafted to beat against each other in a stutter-start, rhythmic way. I particularly enjoyed the lines "The man he yaks / half honest lies" and "So we play with puppets / Tugging on twine." There's a lot of musicality to this poem, which I feel pushes a sense of urgency through the content and gives it a lot of power. Very well done! If I could critique anything, I would suggest maybe spacing apart the three uses of the word "ass" or even taking out two of them, so the one "ass" that remains has more weight and punches at the reader a bit more.

Junkyard Quotes: Week of 2/7/11

(Everything is hopelessly late this week...)

1) “If cats looked like frogs, we'd realize what nasty, cruel little bastards they are.”

-Terry Pratchett, Lords and Ladies

I happened across this on Thursday, and now I need this poem about cats who look like frogs.

2) “Interestingly enough, in [Elizabethan] times, many young men posed as ‘melancholy’ which translated to sad, troubled, fond of wearing black, and artistic. Making this trope Older Than Steam.”

-TVTropes, on the subject of Emo

I totally agree, but I think the Greeks also have to be considered, and I think Homer has the Elizabethans beat when it comes to the melodramatic nature of characterization. The Iliad and The Odyssey are protagonist whinefests wrapped up in extraordinarily textured backdrop of war and adventure. I love them both, but I love The Iliad a little bit more. (I’m bored by the two main protagonists, though. Diomedes is where it’s at.) 

3) “Enter into every man’s ruling faculty; and also let every other man enter into yours.”

-Marcus Aurelius

It’s the simplest thing: “Be open.” But I find it so hard in practice when it comes to my writing. I thought the hardest part was actually sharing it physically with others, but I’m finding it harder still to relax my writing itself. This happens to me on every level of writing. I’ve been trying to finish my book forever, but I keep self-editing and stopping the flow of the story dead in its tracks. I can’t seem to remember how to let the characters breathe freely. They do in my head, but by the time it gets on paper, they feel stilted and self-conscious.

4) “He’s like if Ziggy Stardust and Cyndi Lauper had a very magical, very gay baby with an unbelievable range and the ability to shoot glitter and cocaine and entire battalions of Pussycat Dolls out of his hoo-hah.”

-TWOP Jacob, on Adam Lambert

Read it on TWOP once upon a time, and I just love it. That’s all.

5) “I thought of this that water swallows and elation sighs

That pillows dream and autumn kills herself to feel revived”

-Chris Cornell, “Heart of Honey”

I’ve just about decided that I’m incapable of not going to Soundgarden every week for inspiration and to hope to find phrases that leap out at me. I expect the unexpected from them, which doesn’t make it unexpected but still doesn’t dilute the pleasant surprise of their phrasing. I love the imagery in these lines, and how he phrases it when he sings.

Reading Response 2: Week of 1/31/11

Word of Mouth
Amy Gerstler
"Modern Madonnas"


This was perhaps the flattest reaction I've had to any of the poems read for class thus far. I believe I understand what her general theme was and where she was coming from, but I'm not sure if it's the delivery or the interlocking of tragedy + crime + pop culture + kitchen sink, but it was a chore to read through it. Somewhat like Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire" without the peppy music to keep the redundant and straightforward nature of the piece from becoming redundant. I felt detached enough just reading the poem itself, but then I read the brief bio, which states: "Gerstler's postmodern prayer "Modern Madonnas" is a haunting litany of contemporary suffering." Maybe I am completely disconnected from the suffering of someone somewhere in the world, but I really don't see the "contemporary suffering" in computer-engineered tax evasion, or how it complements or enhances the "haunting" litany of said suffering to list the Gallup Poll, talk radio and glib interviewers alongside diabetic blindness, drive-by shootings, radiation sickness and chemically induced birth defects. If she's being sarcastic or ranting about how the world in general has gone to pot, okay, I was willing to take it that way, like a play on Billy Joel's anthem. But the bio turned that on its head, and some of the things she listed aren't inherently wrong to begin with, like genetic mutation, which has been a constant force in evolution since the dawn of time. (Maybe she chose her word poorly and meant genetic engineering?) I'm not sure how power lunches and after-hours clubs are something to be sad about, either. Likewise soundtracks.

Anyway, I just feel unimpressed and at a loss. I hope someone can give me a fresh perspective on it. :/

Reading Response 1: Week of 1/31/11

Word of Mouth
Naomi Shihab Nye
"My Friend's Divorce"


How I wish I could wrap this up in the perfect Japanese translation and give to my best friend. It was so simple and bare, deceptively so, that for a second, I forgot the title of the poem and began to drift away from it. But it hadn't rambled off course as I believed it had, but, instead, brought the expression of the subject matter full circle to something extraordinarily resonant. It somehow straddles hopefulness with 20-20 hindsight, which I think is a remarkable feat. It's by far one of my favorite poems thus far in Word of Mouth.

Random Freewrite 2: Week of 1/31/11

This was prompted by the line in the freewrite we read last week: “only trolleys promised ghouls.” I can’t seem to get it to express exactly what I was seeing in my head when I read that line, so I keep going back to it and working at it. The freewrite exercise last week might help me if I just set aside what I’ve written here and try it from a fresh perspective. I might try that at some point in the future and give this one another go.

Silent run the ghouls,

somewhat discombobulatedly.

They discard the wilting peel

of twice-stretched earth,

and sift through firefly sieves

butter-melting soft,

to brush the common frame

and catch the patterned hull

of the lacquered scuffle box.

Garbled growling engine on,

coaxed by papers weighing coin.

Sunlight without scorn flicks on

if rather disjointedly.

Forward, then. They jostle on,

and stretch and stretch

resplendently

from gangling gnarls of fading whine

to lucid joyous shifts of wail.

Now through winding coffin lanes

where air weavers rush to and fro

and perchance too late to slow

making circus eyes and circus mouth

to see the ghouls up close.

Moon makes more soup than sun;

wails more kin than whine.

Silent run the ghouls,

surreptitiously.

Now in ones, then twos,

and so forth, on and on,

one might say duplicitously,

for want of company.

Random Freewrite 1: Week of 1/31/11

This was what I wrote in class in response to the stream-of-consciousness prompt. I chose the word "blind." Sorry it's so long and hard to read. I wasn't sure how to break it up, so I just left it as I wrote it, in prose form.

==========

Blind was curtains. Shuttered open shut. Blind made paper curtains open shut. Sliding open shut. Slanting blunt. River islands light and dust. Blind made islands light and dust. Blind kept light and blind kept dust. Curtains blind and curtains shut. Blind bit light and opened shut. Blind kept shut. Blind was bitten. Eaten full. Earth basket weaving full. Earth weaving baskets full. Earth was basket, dust and shut. Earth was basket full. Basket flood. Blind as mud. Blind was mud. Blind had ears. Ears in mud. Blind was years in mud. Blind kept years, years burning fears. Blind had years of burning fears. Blind was bat. Batter bats. Blind had bitter batter bats. Blind kept bats. Blind was bat and open fat. Blind was bat held fatted bat. Blind kept bats in fat. Blind kept bats in vats of fat. Open fat. Blinded bat. Blinded open fatted bat. Blind in vats of battered fat. Blind was rung. Blind was dung. Blind was blood and blood red hung. River red. Blind was blood river red. Blind was floods of river bled. Blind kept bloods in rivers red. Blind was first. Blind was more than born but first. Blind kept first. Kept first the worst. Blind as hearse. Hearse kept first. Fist and worse. Fisted fit. Blind kept blood in fists that fit. Blind kept most in hearse. Blind went boom. Scatter boom. Blind was booming worse than soon. Boomed in hearse. Boomed first and worst. Blind kept booming first and worse. Blind is blooming hearse and first. Blind kept blind in fast and first. Blind has wings. Scatter wings. Fast and first and scattered wings. Fatter wings. Blind is batter casting wings. Blind has legs. Carton legs. Cast and mast and fatter legs. Scatter legs. Blind is legs of rivers red. Blind is minds that scatter red. River red. Livers bled. Blind is found in givers fled. Scattered lead. Scatter minded legs. Blind has mind and wing and leg. Winded leg. Blended red. Blind was rivers bending red. Spatter fled. Blind was Hiroshima booming red. Blind booms red. Blind is blind was battered red. Curtains red. Blind was hearses curtained red. Blind was born of hearse and red. Blind was scattered born and bred. Blind was scattered born to red. Blind was first and fast to red. Blind was broken open first. Blind was born of broken first. Blind held first in burst and worst. Blind was woken first. Woken up and broken first. Woken red and scattered most. Hearse in time of mind the worst. Hearse came first. Not first but worst. Blind begat the worst. Blind was born of conquest first. Not conquest first but bred conflict worst. Blind was Persia, Gaul and worse. Blind held time and place the most. Blind scattered east west south and north. Blind was blind was blind the most. Blind was blind to mind the first. Blind likes blind the most. Scattered mirrors most. Mirrors first and most. Mirrors blind and burst the most. Scattered worse. Carries and spatters most. Blind kept the worst and bred the first. Blind kept blinding most. Blind was never worse than first. Blind came first and lasted most. Blind lasts first and worst. Blind held on the most. Blind slept the worst. Blind sleeps well in first and most in worst. Blind held blind in scatter bursts. Blind made blind of blinded worst. Blind made blinding blinders worse. Blind made blinders first and worst. Blind was blind at birth and blind of birth. Blind was born of blind and worse. Born of hearse the most. Rivers bled the most. Born to first. Beggared first and fast and most. Blind kept beggars blind and worse. Blind was beaten booming beggar hearse. Blind kept blind in bays of blood red hearse. Mind in hearse. Blind kept mind in hearse for most. Blind made minds of hearse the worst. Booming beaten hearse. Mind of rust. Bleeding river rust. Dust of dust of earth. Rusted earth in river hearse. River bled in hearse. Mind of red and mind of hearse. Blinded legs and bended worst. Blind was kept to blind the most. Blind was blinders on in most. Blinders blinding most. Blind was honey chasing first. Blinded blinders honey chasing first. Worse and first. Blind was rich and beggared most. Blind did first to beggar worst. Blind was rich of hearse and rust. Blind was dust of earth and rust. Blind was rust in mud and worse. Blind was battered bats of river rust. Blind kept rivers rusted most. Blind was rivers bleeding rust. Blind kept first. Blind was beggars moving dust. Moving dust to moving dust. Moving rusted crusted earth. Moving rivers bleeding earth. Moving rivers swept the worse. Moving blinded bleeding rust. Moving rivers made of dust. Made of rusted earth for dust. Made in scattered bleeding dust. Blind is scattered bleeding dust. Blind is ash and blind is dust. Beggars often cursed. Beggars cursing blinders most. Blind is binding blind the most. Blinding binders cursing most. Beggars cursing crusted earth. Blind keeps beggars moving dust. Blind as hearse. Blind is broken open first. Broken scattered rusted earth. Blind keeps earth. Blind comes most often first. Blind is first and last and worst. Blind is hearse. Blind is curtains, shutting in. Blind is curtains, shutting end. Blind is dust in paper curtains open shut. Blind is shut.

Junkyard Quotes: Week of 1/31/11

Everything is from Soundgarden today. I was going back through interviews and other articles, looking for some insight on the creative frame of mind, and a few of their quotes jumped out at me for various reasons. I love how no-nonsense they are, but more than that, I love how all four of them open themselves up freely to the creative process and let the music go where it will without trying to “structure” the music or lyrics to match any particular standard.

1) RIP Magazine (1996):

"To me, music should be escapism. It should be confrontational sometimes, to a degree. And if it's done correctly, it can be really powerful. More than being politically or socially aware, it should serve as something that doesn't have to be touched by outside problems, something that's immune to what we perceive as normal humanity. If I started writing songs based on what I saw around me, in the social or political arena exclusively, then I'd start feeling like a puppet, as if whatever happens tomorrow is going to dictate what I write the next day. And I don't want to live like that. I don't want music to mean that to me. I want something else, where tomorrow I'm going to create something that never existed anywhere, and the next day somebody is going to hear it. To me, that's a lot more exciting."

-Chris Cornell

"We approach it more like the song helps the sound. The song helps everything else. The song makes it."

-Ben Shepherd

2) The Guitar Magazine (1996):

"One of my favourite solos with the band is on Slaves and Bulldozers. When our A&R guy came in we played it to him, and he was like, 'This is finished? Huh? C'mon guys.' I just said, 'You don't get it, do you? That's it, finished!' To me it's great - it seems free, it's real kinetic, it gives the song this great jarring feel. Like Suicide is another one I like, but I play that note-for-note every time, the same patterns. Slaves and Bulldozers live is when I'm real free. I just approach the fretboard with a 'what do I do now?' attitude. Sometimes it's great, sometimes it doesn't work. That's what music is like."

-Kim Thayil

3) PULSE (1994):

"People said to me after Temple of the Dog, 'I didn't know you could sing like that. And I had a hard time explaining that, actually, Soundgarden records are much harder to sing. And the reason it seems like it's better is because, rather than being up against the wall all the time like usual, I'm being mellow and flying under the radar, so the points when [my voice] shoots up will seem more aggressive."

-Chris Cornell

4) Rolling Stone (1992):

"That's what happens in a society when music is exposed and hyped one song at a time. Whatever song they grab the ball and run with is the song they're gonna remember you for. There are a few songs that sound like Soundgarden in a nutshell. I don't think ‘Outshined’ is one of them, but that's the one all the kids cheer for. You might play a sing that you feel is the best thing you've done in a while, and it kind of falls on deaf ears; then you play that song half-heartedly, and they love it. It can be depressing if you let it."

–Chris Cornell

5) RIP Magazine (1994):

RIP: That line in "Black Hole Sun," "No one sings like you anymore," who is that directed at?

Kim Thayil: Is it about John Lennon?

Chris Cornell: I ate some cottage cheese that turned, and I wrote those lyrics. I don't know; it's just sort of a surreal dreamscape, a weird, play-with-the-title kind of song.

RIP: Do you free-associate when you write, or do you sit down with a beginning, middle and end in mind?

Chris Cornell: I used to sit down with a cup of coffee, with usually the title in mind. When I start lyrics, that's what I always do; I start with a title.

6) SPIN (1996):

"You just have to allow yourself to go in different directions. There are songs similar to 'Black Hole Sun' that I wrote years ago, but it seemed like they didn't quite fit our perception of the band. Once sort of define what the band is, then you have to move on from there or you're finished, done."

-Chris Cornell

Classmate Response: Week of 1/31/11

David Mathis: “Seagulls”


I simply loved the quiet loneliness of this piece. You didn’t burden it with too much detail. It was stark, like a black and white photograph, and just like black and white photography, it left me wanting to learn more about its subjects. The brilliance of it was that, even as I yearned for you to fill in the “colors” (so to speak), the very starkness of it allowed me to feel them freely. You didn’t force the direction of my mind, in other words, although the time and place and emotions of the piece were impeccably delivered. I was left feeling quite wistful for the narrator’s sake. My favorite line was: “It’s a silent observer now, no longer showing mighty ships the way and I wonder if it parallels my life with no direction.” That parallel was strikingly evocative, and I immediately understood how it felt to be in your narrator’s shoes. Just beautifully done. If I had any constructive criticism, it would be to trust the beauty of the quiet mood you’ve created and not to worry too much about adjectives or exposition. You have a wonderful ear for storytelling, and I can’t wait to get into our prose section to read more!