Yesterday, I submitted this open letter to my future to McSweeney's Internet Tendency. Time has yet to tell if they like it, and given past experiences, they probably won't think it good enough to publish. And I can accept that. Although it would be very nice, publishing is not the point with which I'm concerned. The point is that I wrote something and sent it off. That is in itself the accomplishment, and anything else simply adds to that sense of accomplishment. Take that, Fate - even if McSweeney's ignores me, I won't succumb to life's apathetic feelings for me. I'll pick myself up, dust myself off, and continue moving forward, writing nonsensical things for my own enjoyment.
And if anyone is out there, for your enjoyment, too.
Dear Future,
I don’t hear much from you these days. Times were in the past that you and I would gallivant around and have a merry old time reading, imagining fanciful tales of lands far away, teasing older siblings, with nary a care in the world. Why have you forsaken me thus, Future?
You and I made plans. We would idly dream while sitting beneath the ash tree in the summertime, relishing the feeling of the grass against my calves and arms and toes, building castles together out of sky and light and clouds during those bright days.
I was going to run stables with the fastest racehorse in the world, Future. I was going to be a writer and live in a secluded lighthouse by the bay, and you were going to be right there with me. Do you remember when I said I would be an actress, a veterinarian, a world-renowned Celtic harpist? A paleontologist in the opal mines of Australia, finding the opalized skeleton of a plesiosaur? Well, look at me now, Future. A college student. Don’t you dare tell me I still have potential, that I still have the rest of my life before me. I’m an English major who has a fear of Organic Chemistry, so being a veterinarian, let alone a medical doctor, is out, Future. No symposiums on the zygapophyses in marine dinosaurs’ spinal columns for me, either. Based on your track record, I’m pretty sure being an actress and the horse stables are out, too.
Future, I have not been lazy. Didn’t you get my resume? I sent you fifteen different iterations of it. Yes, I did use the same overworn quotation from Nelson Mandela in every cover letter, but you of all entities should know how hard it is to start one. And at this point in our relationship, I didn’t think you would mind.
Even this summer, Future, I’m planning to run away to India to serve orphaned children. Do you approve, Future? Well, do you? Is anything I say getting through your thick, Fate-ridden skull?
And now we’ve come to this, Future. Because of your silent flakiness, I have decided that you’re out, too. You have left me alone with dreams that will never be fulfilled. I gave you so much imagination, so much potential, and look what you have done with it. My potential has dribbled away like spit on a baby’s chin. So all I am going to do for now is just sit, looking out the window into the rain and thinking of the upcoming days without you. Thanks, Future, for all the dreams gone by. I don’t need you or your false promises of aerie heights anymore. From here on out, I’ll make my own way.
Regards,
Elizabeth Lain
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
Feathers
Another January, another semester's start. And on the very eve of that new semester, the head cold sets in slowly, brooding, menacing, and threatens to be a fever.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
How the Battle Goes
I'm looking for something to do this summer - so I'm internship-searching. Right now, all the internships seem to require that the applicant be in her junior year of college. I'll be a junior the semester after I want to complete my projected internship; that counts, doesn't it?
Right now, I'm looking at McSweeney's, Counterpoint, and Four Walls Eight Windows in the publishing industry, and in the NGO industry House of Freedom.
Backup plans for no internship this summer: running away to India for eight weeks or so.
Right now, I'm looking at McSweeney's, Counterpoint, and Four Walls Eight Windows in the publishing industry, and in the NGO industry House of Freedom.
Backup plans for no internship this summer: running away to India for eight weeks or so.
Monday, January 11, 2010
The Button
In the envisionment of the perfect control panel, there is a mass of buttons and switches. Little shining, whirring needles against their onyx faces. You have no idea what they do. there are series of buttons, and green lights that flash periodically. Eminent among them, a central place on the panel, is the red button. What it does you cannot fathom, but its very color radiates the sense you should not touch it. Immediately, your hand itches to press it, and though your attention moves on to other buttons on the control panel, your fingers are always aware of how far away that button is.
There is a "send" button on my e-mail inbox. In my head, it has all the trappings of that nefarious red button. I hold my digital finger over it, and I see the phantoms of red flags, red alarms, yellow tape flashing behind my eyes.
I did not push the button. Yet.
Kako Ueda
In other news I saw thisand liked it. Then I thought maybe you would think it interesting, too. However, perhaps I am misguided and you develop an extreme case of artist-envy and mail yourself an empty envelope made entirely out of A4 paper and Elmer's glue every day, hoping to inadvertently give yourself a papercut. The days pass on and no cut comes; out of the hundreds of failed letters you make thousands of sanguinary paper cut-out men all linked to one another by their hands, which Looney Tunes characters can create with a few seconds of snipping and flying paper bits. The paper cut-out men never seem to be realized in real life. One day your index finger accidentally slips and the coincidental paper cut eschews a single blood drop from your veins, a perfect sphere save for the cohesive forces between blood and skin and that tell-tale sign of gravity, a lengthening orb - oh, the imperfect world in which we live! Then, then can you say that your work of performance art is perfected and has superseded any and all artistic endeavors that Mr. Callesen has pursued, and even the fact he is Danish does not help, for you have given life to create art, and in mailing yourself envelopes of A4 paper every day have blurred the lines between art and life, for indeed, art=life - or is it the other way around?
There is a "send" button on my e-mail inbox. In my head, it has all the trappings of that nefarious red button. I hold my digital finger over it, and I see the phantoms of red flags, red alarms, yellow tape flashing behind my eyes.
I did not push the button. Yet.
Kako Ueda
In other news I saw thisand liked it. Then I thought maybe you would think it interesting, too. However, perhaps I am misguided and you develop an extreme case of artist-envy and mail yourself an empty envelope made entirely out of A4 paper and Elmer's glue every day, hoping to inadvertently give yourself a papercut. The days pass on and no cut comes; out of the hundreds of failed letters you make thousands of sanguinary paper cut-out men all linked to one another by their hands, which Looney Tunes characters can create with a few seconds of snipping and flying paper bits. The paper cut-out men never seem to be realized in real life. One day your index finger accidentally slips and the coincidental paper cut eschews a single blood drop from your veins, a perfect sphere save for the cohesive forces between blood and skin and that tell-tale sign of gravity, a lengthening orb - oh, the imperfect world in which we live! Then, then can you say that your work of performance art is perfected and has superseded any and all artistic endeavors that Mr. Callesen has pursued, and even the fact he is Danish does not help, for you have given life to create art, and in mailing yourself envelopes of A4 paper every day have blurred the lines between art and life, for indeed, art=life - or is it the other way around?
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Venturing Forth
As the post of Wednesday, January 6th, 2010, intimates, I am still recovering from surgery on my wisdom teeth. For the first time since Tuesday, I ventured forth from my home and attended church for two hours before scuttling back to my well-worn place on the couch and taking a well-deserved nap (of an equivalent amount of time to that spent at church - I have to make everything balance in my double-entry logbook of time spent awake and sleeping) to make up for all the time I missed being away from home.
And I had some crazy dreams during that time. The much-anticipated game of football between the Cardinals and the Packers was on, audio blasting. My subconscious incorporated the sounds while calling forth new visuals and plot in creative fury. My college, Scripps, had been transformed into a thirteenth-century castle with influences from the Spanish mission style; it was complete with walls and a moat. The game was a mock-battle played with what very well could have been a pig's bladder, and, per usual at sporting events, the ladies' restroom had a line up the wazoo. Someone important was being held hostage in the men's room; so many people so close, yet know one knew because of a porcelain wall.
The pain from the surgery has finally begun to abate, although sometimes late at night and in the early morning, I still feel part of myself missing. I still feel the holes where my teeth once were. Never again can I sing Chip Skylark's song "My Shiny Teeth and Me" in full fidelity; I must amend the line
"Why should I talk to you
When I've got thirty-two
Shiny teeth and me"
to
"Why for you should I wait
When I've got twenty-eight
Shiny teeth and me"
The stress is off, but at least it keeps the same number of syllables.
Perhaps some other day I will discourse on the reconciliation between believing in God and evolution, but not tonight. Tonight is reverence for individuals who have the courage and humor to post a story in a single sentence.
"My bathroom is too small for dancing."
'Two stitches and twenty years later, I still don't know why she threw the rock at me, but I'm pretty sure that she was lying when she said, "I was playing hopscotch and missed."'
"I don't really want to be an engineer but I REALLY don't want to be a failure to my parents."
'I cried when I read the note, in my step-dad's handwriting, and it said "our daughter."'
I can say no more, other than this is where the lines blur between art and life.
Claude Monet, half of "The Cliff, Etretan, Sunset"
And I had some crazy dreams during that time. The much-anticipated game of football between the Cardinals and the Packers was on, audio blasting. My subconscious incorporated the sounds while calling forth new visuals and plot in creative fury. My college, Scripps, had been transformed into a thirteenth-century castle with influences from the Spanish mission style; it was complete with walls and a moat. The game was a mock-battle played with what very well could have been a pig's bladder, and, per usual at sporting events, the ladies' restroom had a line up the wazoo. Someone important was being held hostage in the men's room; so many people so close, yet know one knew because of a porcelain wall.
The pain from the surgery has finally begun to abate, although sometimes late at night and in the early morning, I still feel part of myself missing. I still feel the holes where my teeth once were. Never again can I sing Chip Skylark's song "My Shiny Teeth and Me" in full fidelity; I must amend the line
"Why should I talk to you
When I've got thirty-two
Shiny teeth and me"
to
"Why for you should I wait
When I've got twenty-eight
Shiny teeth and me"
The stress is off, but at least it keeps the same number of syllables.
Perhaps some other day I will discourse on the reconciliation between believing in God and evolution, but not tonight. Tonight is reverence for individuals who have the courage and humor to post a story in a single sentence.
"My bathroom is too small for dancing."
'Two stitches and twenty years later, I still don't know why she threw the rock at me, but I'm pretty sure that she was lying when she said, "I was playing hopscotch and missed."'
"I don't really want to be an engineer but I REALLY don't want to be a failure to my parents."
'I cried when I read the note, in my step-dad's handwriting, and it said "our daughter."'
I can say no more, other than this is where the lines blur between art and life.
Claude Monet, half of "The Cliff, Etretan, Sunset"
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Cuil Theory
Thanks to RedDyeNumber4 for the genius; I could never come up with something quite like this.
One Cuil = One level of abstraction away from the reality of a situation.
Example: You ask me for a Hamburger.
1 Cuil: if you asked me for a hamburger, and I gave you a raccoon.
2 Cuils: If you asked me for a hamburger, but it turns out I don't really exist. Where I was originally standing, a picture of a hamburger rests on the ground.
3 Cuils: You awake as a hamburger. You start screaming only to have special sauce fly from your lips. The world is in sepia.
4 Cuils: Why are we speaking German? A mime cries softly as he cradles a young cow. Your grandfather stares at you as the cow falls apart into patties. You look down only to see me with pickles for eyes, I am singing the song that gives birth to the universe.
5 Cuils: You ask for a hamburger, I give you a hamburger. You raise it to your lips and take a bite. Your eye twitches involuntarily. Across the street a father of three falls down the stairs. You swallow and look down at the hamburger in your hands. I give you a hamburger. You swallow and look down at the hamburger in your hands. You cannot swallow. There are children at the top of the stairs. A pickle shifts uneasily under the bun. I give you a hamburger. You look at my face, and I am pleading with you. The children are crying now. You raise the hamburger to your lips, tears stream down your face as you take a bite. I give you a hamburger. You are on your knees. You plead with me to go across the street. I hear only children's laughter. I give you a hamburger. You are screaming as you fall down the stairs. I am your child. You cannot see anything. You take a bite of the hamburger. The concrete rushes up to meet you. You awake with a start in your own bed. Your eye twitches involuntarily. I give you a hamburger. As you kill me, I do not make a sound. I give you a hamburger.
6 Cuils: You ask me for a hamburger. My attempt to reciprocate is cut brutally short as my body experiences a sudden lack of electrons. Across a variety of hidden dimensions you are dismayed. John Lennon hands me an apple, but it slips through my fingers. I am reborn as an ocelot. You disapprove. A crack echoes through the universe in defiance of conventional physics as cosmological background noise shifts from randomness to a perfect A Flat. Children everywhere stop what they are doing and hum along in perfect pitch with the background radiation. Birds fall from the sky as the sun engulfs the earth. You hesitate momentarily before allowing yourself to assume the locus of all knowledge. Entropy crumbles as you peruse the information contained within the universe. A small library in Phoenix ceases to exist. You stumble under the weight of everythingness, Your mouth opens up to cry out, and collapses around your body before blinking you out of the spatial plane. You exist only within the fourth dimension. The fountainhead of all knowledge rolls along the ground and collides with a small dog. My head tastes sideways as spacetime is reestablished, you blink back into the corporeal world disoriented, only for me to hand you a hamburger as my body collapses under the strain of reconstitution. The universe has reasserted itself. A particular small dog is fed steak for the rest of its natural life. You die in a freak accident moments later, and you soul works at the returns desk for the Phoenix library. You disapprove. Your disapproval sends ripples through the inter-dimensional void between life and death. A small child begins to cry as he walks toward the stairway where his father stands.
What is the 7th cuil?
For those who are interested in helping to create a working Cuil Theory, visit the wiki at:
http://cuiltheory.wikidot.com/
The password to gain wiki access once you register is "hamburger"
Original source: http://www.reddit.com/r/worldnews/comments/7da5i/police_raids_reveal_baby_farms/c06cqxb
One Cuil = One level of abstraction away from the reality of a situation.
Example: You ask me for a Hamburger.
1 Cuil: if you asked me for a hamburger, and I gave you a raccoon.
2 Cuils: If you asked me for a hamburger, but it turns out I don't really exist. Where I was originally standing, a picture of a hamburger rests on the ground.
3 Cuils: You awake as a hamburger. You start screaming only to have special sauce fly from your lips. The world is in sepia.
4 Cuils: Why are we speaking German? A mime cries softly as he cradles a young cow. Your grandfather stares at you as the cow falls apart into patties. You look down only to see me with pickles for eyes, I am singing the song that gives birth to the universe.
5 Cuils: You ask for a hamburger, I give you a hamburger. You raise it to your lips and take a bite. Your eye twitches involuntarily. Across the street a father of three falls down the stairs. You swallow and look down at the hamburger in your hands. I give you a hamburger. You swallow and look down at the hamburger in your hands. You cannot swallow. There are children at the top of the stairs. A pickle shifts uneasily under the bun. I give you a hamburger. You look at my face, and I am pleading with you. The children are crying now. You raise the hamburger to your lips, tears stream down your face as you take a bite. I give you a hamburger. You are on your knees. You plead with me to go across the street. I hear only children's laughter. I give you a hamburger. You are screaming as you fall down the stairs. I am your child. You cannot see anything. You take a bite of the hamburger. The concrete rushes up to meet you. You awake with a start in your own bed. Your eye twitches involuntarily. I give you a hamburger. As you kill me, I do not make a sound. I give you a hamburger.
6 Cuils: You ask me for a hamburger. My attempt to reciprocate is cut brutally short as my body experiences a sudden lack of electrons. Across a variety of hidden dimensions you are dismayed. John Lennon hands me an apple, but it slips through my fingers. I am reborn as an ocelot. You disapprove. A crack echoes through the universe in defiance of conventional physics as cosmological background noise shifts from randomness to a perfect A Flat. Children everywhere stop what they are doing and hum along in perfect pitch with the background radiation. Birds fall from the sky as the sun engulfs the earth. You hesitate momentarily before allowing yourself to assume the locus of all knowledge. Entropy crumbles as you peruse the information contained within the universe. A small library in Phoenix ceases to exist. You stumble under the weight of everythingness, Your mouth opens up to cry out, and collapses around your body before blinking you out of the spatial plane. You exist only within the fourth dimension. The fountainhead of all knowledge rolls along the ground and collides with a small dog. My head tastes sideways as spacetime is reestablished, you blink back into the corporeal world disoriented, only for me to hand you a hamburger as my body collapses under the strain of reconstitution. The universe has reasserted itself. A particular small dog is fed steak for the rest of its natural life. You die in a freak accident moments later, and you soul works at the returns desk for the Phoenix library. You disapprove. Your disapproval sends ripples through the inter-dimensional void between life and death. A small child begins to cry as he walks toward the stairway where his father stands.
What is the 7th cuil?
For those who are interested in helping to create a working Cuil Theory, visit the wiki at:
http://cuiltheory.wikidot.com/
The password to gain wiki access once you register is "hamburger"
Original source: http://www.reddit.com/r/worldnews/comments/7da5i/police_raids_reveal_baby_farms/c06cqxb
Fluttering Optimism
I've still been working on the manuscript referenced in "On Discovering an Interesting Blog" written on December 29th, 2009. On Monday, I e-mailed my brother the first chapter of my manuscript. I hadn't looked at the first chapter in quite some time, and it was a shot in the dark. Surprisingly, he came back with good news:
"The beginning flowed very well; it had the feel of a published work. I liked that you gave the reader an issue for the character at the beginning: she wants to read but doesn't know how. It's a great start....
"Here comes the constructive criticism part. I did have a little trouble following things there at the end... Sometimes it's good to be a little vague in describing things to allow the readers imagination to take over. While it's good to describe things in rich detail, always remember that the reader has no idea what image is in your head until you put it into words...
"Overall, it was fun to read and I was pleasantly surprised with the level of craftsmanship. I would encourage you to keep writing."
So here's to reinvigorated hope in the face of - gasp - 2010. My first post in reference to the new year. All I can say now is upward.
This last part of the post counts for 3 cuil: I am tango dancing on the surface of a hard-bound illuminated manuscript written in the 14th century, with you. Within the book is the illumination of you and I dancing on a manuscript written in the 14th century.
Neo Tango by Kanegis
"The beginning flowed very well; it had the feel of a published work. I liked that you gave the reader an issue for the character at the beginning: she wants to read but doesn't know how. It's a great start....
"Here comes the constructive criticism part. I did have a little trouble following things there at the end... Sometimes it's good to be a little vague in describing things to allow the readers imagination to take over. While it's good to describe things in rich detail, always remember that the reader has no idea what image is in your head until you put it into words...
"Overall, it was fun to read and I was pleasantly surprised with the level of craftsmanship. I would encourage you to keep writing."
So here's to reinvigorated hope in the face of - gasp - 2010. My first post in reference to the new year. All I can say now is upward.
This last part of the post counts for 3 cuil: I am tango dancing on the surface of a hard-bound illuminated manuscript written in the 14th century, with you. Within the book is the illumination of you and I dancing on a manuscript written in the 14th century.
Neo Tango by Kanegis
Sweet 'n Sour Chicken
O sweet 'n sour chicken, why can I not partake of your crispiness?
Yesterday, about 10 am, I had my wisdom teeth taken out. Since then, I have been telling time twenty-minute increments, switching the ice pack from cheek to cheek.I have been on a strict regiment of applesauce, pudding, and Jell-O, with the occasional milkshake and smoothie thrown in. Appuddingle-O? Not all at once, I hope.
It's not a bad life, except for the deep, dull aching in my jaw and the self-imposed house arrest due to medications. But I have two siblings and a mother that cater to my whims. They are simple; I do not ask for foot massages or hourly kowtows. My needs are simple - some water, putting in DVDs, making up Jell-O or pudding, refilling the ice pack. Except when it comes to real food.
It is Wednesday, and I have not had any solid food since Monday. The sight and smell of the chicken, generic, MSG-packed, unhealthy chicken from the freezer, on any other occasion would have elicited a dull response, but not tonight. I would have given an extra pair of molars to be able to taste those stringy, orange-flavored fibers of chicken meat, to be able to chew and crunch - yet without the work of crunching. That makes my still-tender jaws tremble with the pain of the imagination.
It would be awesome to have a crocodile's jaws. Have you ever seen the musculature of a crocodile's throat? It looks like giant white balloons on either side of the jaws. You could float on them.
Dream of that tonight - floating on the jaws of crocodiles.
Yesterday, about 10 am, I had my wisdom teeth taken out. Since then, I have been telling time twenty-minute increments, switching the ice pack from cheek to cheek.I have been on a strict regiment of applesauce, pudding, and Jell-O, with the occasional milkshake and smoothie thrown in. Appuddingle-O? Not all at once, I hope.
It's not a bad life, except for the deep, dull aching in my jaw and the self-imposed house arrest due to medications. But I have two siblings and a mother that cater to my whims. They are simple; I do not ask for foot massages or hourly kowtows. My needs are simple - some water, putting in DVDs, making up Jell-O or pudding, refilling the ice pack. Except when it comes to real food.
It is Wednesday, and I have not had any solid food since Monday. The sight and smell of the chicken, generic, MSG-packed, unhealthy chicken from the freezer, on any other occasion would have elicited a dull response, but not tonight. I would have given an extra pair of molars to be able to taste those stringy, orange-flavored fibers of chicken meat, to be able to chew and crunch - yet without the work of crunching. That makes my still-tender jaws tremble with the pain of the imagination.
It would be awesome to have a crocodile's jaws. Have you ever seen the musculature of a crocodile's throat? It looks like giant white balloons on either side of the jaws. You could float on them.
Dream of that tonight - floating on the jaws of crocodiles.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
New Year, New Meme
In my pre-college life, I never before had heard the term "meme" or even "trope." "Theme" was a common enough question to encounter on an English test, and one word (i.e. theme) should be enough. Trope and theme are also similar, but I'm intrigued by the idea of a meme. According to the cursory research afforded by Wikipedia and the definition by Richard Dawkins it gives, a meme is a cultural idea or embodiment that is subject to evolution. That is intriguing - an idea that can be passed from person to person and evolves as it goes. It is either the most brilliant thing I have ever heard, or the most astute articulation of the obvious.
In my mind, it still seems reminiscent of a theme. I imagine the nascence of the term "meme" to have arisen in a literature class where the professor wanted to discuss the themes that were present in the work the class was currently examining. And instead of discussing the themes, the professor wanted to discuss himself, the 'me,' as a theme. With self-gratifying syncretism, it became the "meme" - the theme of oneself. It is so Walt Whitman-esque.
Earlier today, I stumbled upon McSweeney's Internet Tendency. I have only a few things to say about it - I was enchanted by the ease and flow of the words as they tumbled over my web browser. Like a moth attracted to the scintillating glow of the lamp, "Open Letters to People or Entities Who Are Unlikely to Respond" revved the engine of my imagination. My imagination and I decided that we would challenge either and widen the range of our writing and thinking abilities.
This might be the only time in my life I lament the fact I have never been a cashier. It might be an interesting opportunity for writing: noticing and commenting on the things people buy. This afternoon at the grocer's, I purchased two jugs of orange juice, two gallons of ice cream - one vanilla, the other mint chocolate chip - and a shrimp platter. What was I going to do with that? Make smoothie-shake from the ice cream and orange juice, then use it as a cocktail sauce for the shrimp? I think not. This deserves more cogitation.
An image of Bodhidharma, "That I may time transcend, that a universe my heart may unfold" by Takahashi Murakami for delectation.
In my mind, it still seems reminiscent of a theme. I imagine the nascence of the term "meme" to have arisen in a literature class where the professor wanted to discuss the themes that were present in the work the class was currently examining. And instead of discussing the themes, the professor wanted to discuss himself, the 'me,' as a theme. With self-gratifying syncretism, it became the "meme" - the theme of oneself. It is so Walt Whitman-esque.
Earlier today, I stumbled upon McSweeney's Internet Tendency. I have only a few things to say about it - I was enchanted by the ease and flow of the words as they tumbled over my web browser. Like a moth attracted to the scintillating glow of the lamp, "Open Letters to People or Entities Who Are Unlikely to Respond" revved the engine of my imagination. My imagination and I decided that we would challenge either and widen the range of our writing and thinking abilities.
This might be the only time in my life I lament the fact I have never been a cashier. It might be an interesting opportunity for writing: noticing and commenting on the things people buy. This afternoon at the grocer's, I purchased two jugs of orange juice, two gallons of ice cream - one vanilla, the other mint chocolate chip - and a shrimp platter. What was I going to do with that? Make smoothie-shake from the ice cream and orange juice, then use it as a cocktail sauce for the shrimp? I think not. This deserves more cogitation.
An image of Bodhidharma, "That I may time transcend, that a universe my heart may unfold" by Takahashi Murakami for delectation.
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