Presently I am sitting in a throne. Not the throne, however. I was appointed to be the Empress of Imperial China for one fellow's presentation. This suits me quite nice. I just got a hot coffee, with the good cream and cubes of sugar. I never buy those, so I feel like they are a little bit of luxury.
Today is my meeting to talk about my 90 minute presenation. My greatr idea is something that springboards from a Cheers episode. Remember the episode where Coach teaches Sam about Albania? "Albania, Albania. It borders on the Adriatic. Your land is mostly mountainous, and your chief export is crow. You're a communist republic, you're a red regime..." To be honest...I didn't really remember all that til I watched the clip on YouTube.
The idea of course is that you remember things related to music. How I'm going to spin this into 90 minutes, I'm not entirely sure. I do think Coach is going to open my show and we'll finish with the Three Piggy Opera Finale from the video.
I'll keep you posted on my progress...ba dum bump!
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
I've Got a Fever
I remember our hostel suite.
Oxymoron? Perhaps. But at $30
For a private room and shower
In the shadow of Frau mountain
We couldn’t believe our fortune.
Hot showers for all after
Crawling through cold canyon crevasses.
Heaven.
Open windows, shouts to come look.
Slipping and sliding on the shower floor
Towel tucks under my arm
Drips dropping dew to my shoulders
As I peer out the portal.
Hearing them first from around the corner.
Clips clops clanks and claps.
The cows and farmers come home from fields.
Bells banging but beautifully.
I want more cow bells.
Oxymoron? Perhaps. But at $30
For a private room and shower
In the shadow of Frau mountain
We couldn’t believe our fortune.
Hot showers for all after
Crawling through cold canyon crevasses.
Heaven.
Open windows, shouts to come look.
Slipping and sliding on the shower floor
Towel tucks under my arm
Drips dropping dew to my shoulders
As I peer out the portal.
Hearing them first from around the corner.
Clips clops clanks and claps.
The cows and farmers come home from fields.
Bells banging but beautifully.
I want more cow bells.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Cuz i'm a Cowboy, Baby
I have never been gifted in the art of poetry. While both reading and writing it, I can't escape the feeling that the bullshit is flowing. Both in my interpretations and in my smarmy attempts. I think it goes back to the book of poems I wrote in the eigth grade that included these gems:
Yellmert
My bird is such a happy fellow.
He sings for me and is so yellow.
(and)
When Prince Charles becomes king,
It will be a special thing
And all the church bells will ring.
Yellmert
My bird is such a happy fellow.
He sings for me and is so yellow.
(and)
When Prince Charles becomes king,
It will be a special thing
And all the church bells will ring.
We had to draw pictures to accompany our poems, and Gina C. had recently taught me how to draw clowns wearing sombreros. (That's the way I remember it). So Prince Charles looks more like a git than a prince. Plus there was the haiku about a young tree weathering a storm. I asked Brad what a young tree is called and he told me "sibling" not the correct term, sapling. So my title probably led my teacher to think the poem much deeper than it was in actuality.
After reading the pieces posted here, my advisor told me today that I write like a cowboy. Straightforward, honest and with a take it or leave it attitude. She said it much better than I, and since I recently bought a cowboy hat, and found out some ancestors led wild west sort of lives, this was pretty cool to hear.
So here is what I came up with today. We were given sentence starters, and then had to fill in the end of the line, and develop a poem from that. So is it bullshit or not? I don't know. But I am enjoying writing it more than I ever have before. (The top part of the first is a shout out to Len T.)
The dice skip toward Len
The stick pushing them forward
like they are late for supper.
In a hurry passing his gin martini,
two green olives speared
through their red centers.
Leaning over the table
He seizes them in a wet hand
lifts
blows
shakes
releases.
Catches breath, nails bite palms.
Silent begging prayers.
Thoughts race.
The money on the table is his.
Impulse to
grab it and run.
Could they catch him?
Rolling bouncing off edges
down green felt
settling at last.
Eyes widen.
Cheers erupt.
“Six the hard way!”
He doubles up and
Lets it ride.
Nothing was the same,
Now that it was over.
When he calls now
I force gaiety.
But I am waiting.
I know that now he calls for
something.
I know what he
wants.
I know I can be
weak.
I know I am
afraid.
I know I am
lonely.
But what if it is different
now?
Am I hopeful or
pathetic?
After reading the pieces posted here, my advisor told me today that I write like a cowboy. Straightforward, honest and with a take it or leave it attitude. She said it much better than I, and since I recently bought a cowboy hat, and found out some ancestors led wild west sort of lives, this was pretty cool to hear.
So here is what I came up with today. We were given sentence starters, and then had to fill in the end of the line, and develop a poem from that. So is it bullshit or not? I don't know. But I am enjoying writing it more than I ever have before. (The top part of the first is a shout out to Len T.)
The dice skip toward Len
The stick pushing them forward
like they are late for supper.
In a hurry passing his gin martini,
two green olives speared
through their red centers.
Leaning over the table
He seizes them in a wet hand
lifts
blows
shakes
releases.
Catches breath, nails bite palms.
Silent begging prayers.
Thoughts race.
The money on the table is his.
Impulse to
grab it and run.
Could they catch him?
Rolling bouncing off edges
down green felt
settling at last.
Eyes widen.
Cheers erupt.
“Six the hard way!”
He doubles up and
Lets it ride.
Nothing was the same,
Now that it was over.
When he calls now
I force gaiety.
But I am waiting.
I know that now he calls for
something.
I know what he
wants.
I know I can be
weak.
I know I am
afraid.
I know I am
lonely.
But what if it is different
now?
Am I hopeful or
pathetic?
Friday, June 22, 2007
Eviseration
I was heralded awake at the unsummerly hour of 6:30 this morning...my new house MO is to keep the sliding glass door closed at all times to keep my vermin in and the other vermin out. Winky is not a fan. he now refuses to use the litter box, making me his doorman. He does this by using the loudest, longest, most irritating meow. Which will get a girl out of bed.
Stumbled down the hallway, let him out. On my way to returning to bed, saw how close I came to the most recently decapitated member of my household...This time though, he decided it would be fun to pull out the guts as well. At least he prefers the hallway over my bed. That is something I suppose.
Stumbled down the hallway, let him out. On my way to returning to bed, saw how close I came to the most recently decapitated member of my household...This time though, he decided it would be fun to pull out the guts as well. At least he prefers the hallway over my bed. That is something I suppose.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
The Great White Hunter
This is something more of my typical, day in the life of KF kinda blog...
The past three nights I’ve had different late night visitors…Kind of unexpected. But don’t worry friends. I wouldn’t classify these as booty calls.
See, Winky has been bringing friends in to play. And by friends I mean field mice. The first two nights I was able to free them, and thought they had escaped outside. Then I came home from the seminar yesterday to find a bloody crime scene with one very dead and headless mouse. And given Winky’s delicate constitution, he promptly puked the head, skull and ears back up next to the corpse. Yuck! Yuck! (Geovanni quote).
So I figured my problem was solved. Then last night, while playing dominos, my opponent suddenly froze, with a slightly horrified look on his face. I looked into the mirror behind him to see a mouse bounding across the top of my framed Cezanne poster. We grabbed a big bucket and broom to attempt to sweep him to relative safety (after all, I live with a killer). Well, the stupid mouse leaped away from us a good three feet and disappeared behind the large and heavy entertainment center. This sincerely creeped me out.
Well, I figured it was time to bring out the big guns. So I woke up Winky from his nap on my bed and placed him in front of the entertainment center. Where he rolled over. I picked him up and shoved him forward again. He thought this was my way of saying “there’s food in the kitchen!” and sauntered that-a-way. Useless. Utterly useless.
My night was fretful and steeped in anxiety dreams of mice. In one, I brought Roxie over to save the day. Well Roxie chased the mouse off of the deck (we were suddenly at the cabin) and jumped after it (did she break her back??). Followed by Chuckles, Joy Marie and Winky.
This morning I was late to the seminar as I was hiding in my room waiting for the exterminator to work his magic. It wasn’t all bad as I was able to fitfully doze some more. The magic was simply scattering poison pellets for the mouse to enjoy, and hoping he will go outside to die in peace. I don't see my luck going that way, but maybe...
Writing samples
The screaming coming from the kitchen was deafening. Makes you want to cover your ears and head the other way. But still, we entered.
“Merlin knows it’s happy hour. Some birds sing for their supper, but not ours. He screeches,” I explain to our neighbor Robin who has come for dinner and drinks. The latter coming before the former in our case.
“How long have you had him?” she asked, doubtlessly wondering if returning him was still an option.
“We’ve had him about twenty years.” I grabbed glasses, walked to the fridge to fill them with ice. “We were told he was used in a cruise ship magician’s act…”
“Uh, Nancy,” I heard her say.
I turned to see her looking in the birds’ cage. Sadly, at the bottom was Kramer, Merlin’s paramour, dead.
Explanation
We were asked to draw a picture of our mother's kitchen and had to include the stove, something green and something dead. Then we had to write a story from the perspective of a female relation upon entering the kitchen.
His hands are large, strong, and brown with painful black blisters on his knuckles. He picks up a cold can of Coke, pops the top, takes a long swig and places it almost silently on the table. A lion prowling the safari, he moves silently with determination towards my refrigerator. “Do you want something?” I ask him. He looks at me with tired eyes and says with quiet lips, “Yeah, but I don’t know how to get it.”
Explanation:
So in class today, one thing was to write a snapshot story using five sentences. The first describes someone's (real or imagined) hands, the secondan action they perform with the hands, the third a metaphor, the fourth a question you have related to 2 or 3 and the fifth the response the subject gives you that shows they don't understand what you are asking.
I approach the room through a door that is topped in clear glass. Peering in, I see dark wood paneling leading to a vaulted ceiling that meets at a rotating fan. The room appears cluttered with chochkis, souvenirs from trips around the world and street fairs held downtown every summer. Everything has a place, but most things seem out of place. Somehow nothing goes, but everything belongs.
Entering the room, eyes, feet and ears appreciate the sounds of old wood. The hardwood floors are well-worn and to the eye seem to have a warm and inviting texture. Strewn between comfortable couches are throw rugs that are inviting to feet on cold mornings, and where a cat has doubtlessly sharpened his claws.
The room is utterly still, but for the fan that circles above it all. The soft whirring hum and the soft breeze are the only things that change in this room.
Explantion:
Presented with a variety of things, we had to write a description of the room that the objects came from. There were old keys, a glass fishing thing, a prayer card, lira, a porcelian fortune cookie, and a blue and white chinese-style bowl. I thought about the house we stayed in for Jodi's 30th, and in descibing the wood, I was thinking of the frame Swiss Miss has of the Grizzly Bear that I hope she wills on to me one day. (Don't think I forgot!)
The past three nights I’ve had different late night visitors…Kind of unexpected. But don’t worry friends. I wouldn’t classify these as booty calls.
See, Winky has been bringing friends in to play. And by friends I mean field mice. The first two nights I was able to free them, and thought they had escaped outside. Then I came home from the seminar yesterday to find a bloody crime scene with one very dead and headless mouse. And given Winky’s delicate constitution, he promptly puked the head, skull and ears back up next to the corpse. Yuck! Yuck! (Geovanni quote).
So I figured my problem was solved. Then last night, while playing dominos, my opponent suddenly froze, with a slightly horrified look on his face. I looked into the mirror behind him to see a mouse bounding across the top of my framed Cezanne poster. We grabbed a big bucket and broom to attempt to sweep him to relative safety (after all, I live with a killer). Well, the stupid mouse leaped away from us a good three feet and disappeared behind the large and heavy entertainment center. This sincerely creeped me out.
Well, I figured it was time to bring out the big guns. So I woke up Winky from his nap on my bed and placed him in front of the entertainment center. Where he rolled over. I picked him up and shoved him forward again. He thought this was my way of saying “there’s food in the kitchen!” and sauntered that-a-way. Useless. Utterly useless.
My night was fretful and steeped in anxiety dreams of mice. In one, I brought Roxie over to save the day. Well Roxie chased the mouse off of the deck (we were suddenly at the cabin) and jumped after it (did she break her back??). Followed by Chuckles, Joy Marie and Winky.
This morning I was late to the seminar as I was hiding in my room waiting for the exterminator to work his magic. It wasn’t all bad as I was able to fitfully doze some more. The magic was simply scattering poison pellets for the mouse to enjoy, and hoping he will go outside to die in peace. I don't see my luck going that way, but maybe...
Writing samples
The screaming coming from the kitchen was deafening. Makes you want to cover your ears and head the other way. But still, we entered.
“Merlin knows it’s happy hour. Some birds sing for their supper, but not ours. He screeches,” I explain to our neighbor Robin who has come for dinner and drinks. The latter coming before the former in our case.
“How long have you had him?” she asked, doubtlessly wondering if returning him was still an option.
“We’ve had him about twenty years.” I grabbed glasses, walked to the fridge to fill them with ice. “We were told he was used in a cruise ship magician’s act…”
“Uh, Nancy,” I heard her say.
I turned to see her looking in the birds’ cage. Sadly, at the bottom was Kramer, Merlin’s paramour, dead.
Explanation
We were asked to draw a picture of our mother's kitchen and had to include the stove, something green and something dead. Then we had to write a story from the perspective of a female relation upon entering the kitchen.
His hands are large, strong, and brown with painful black blisters on his knuckles. He picks up a cold can of Coke, pops the top, takes a long swig and places it almost silently on the table. A lion prowling the safari, he moves silently with determination towards my refrigerator. “Do you want something?” I ask him. He looks at me with tired eyes and says with quiet lips, “Yeah, but I don’t know how to get it.”
Explanation:
So in class today, one thing was to write a snapshot story using five sentences. The first describes someone's (real or imagined) hands, the secondan action they perform with the hands, the third a metaphor, the fourth a question you have related to 2 or 3 and the fifth the response the subject gives you that shows they don't understand what you are asking.
I approach the room through a door that is topped in clear glass. Peering in, I see dark wood paneling leading to a vaulted ceiling that meets at a rotating fan. The room appears cluttered with chochkis, souvenirs from trips around the world and street fairs held downtown every summer. Everything has a place, but most things seem out of place. Somehow nothing goes, but everything belongs.
Entering the room, eyes, feet and ears appreciate the sounds of old wood. The hardwood floors are well-worn and to the eye seem to have a warm and inviting texture. Strewn between comfortable couches are throw rugs that are inviting to feet on cold mornings, and where a cat has doubtlessly sharpened his claws.
The room is utterly still, but for the fan that circles above it all. The soft whirring hum and the soft breeze are the only things that change in this room.
Explantion:
Presented with a variety of things, we had to write a description of the room that the objects came from. There were old keys, a glass fishing thing, a prayer card, lira, a porcelian fortune cookie, and a blue and white chinese-style bowl. I thought about the house we stayed in for Jodi's 30th, and in descibing the wood, I was thinking of the frame Swiss Miss has of the Grizzly Bear that I hope she wills on to me one day. (Don't think I forgot!)
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
I'm Karin and I like Carrot Colored Kayaks
Where I’m From
I am from Honeycombs,
from muffins with peanut butter and raspberry jam.
I am from the silt sand that lies next to the Russian River.
(Soft, hot, light, infiltrating everywhere).
I am from the hydrangea bush,
And the red berry bush whose
Leaves would absorb our soccer and baseballs.
I am from cold cookie dough and kinky fuzzy hair,
From Yolanda and Vernon.
I’m from the heart of stone and
The gets lost in a paper bag.
From it’s the price you pay for being a jock
to put on some make-up.
I am from pellet guns, exploding apples
Ball tag, king (queen) of the raft.
I’m from Trinity and Baldwin.
Mashed potatoes and cold Coca Cola.
From the carpenter hands of my grandfather
The red hair my mom hopes will appear in the next generation.
In our attic is a hope chest,
Dripping old pictures.
A slew of past times and faces,
To laugh and remember.
I am the culmination of those moments.
So today was the first day of the writing fellowship. The above is my rendition of a poem by George Ella Lyon. It was a great first day, and I feel genuinely inspired...which is good because there are many more days ahead of me. The title was a name game we played where you had to come up with an alliteration on your name of things you liked. I think it helped everyone remember me because I am wearing an orange shirt today.
Keep coming back as I plan to post my daily writings here in the afternoon...
I am from Honeycombs,
from muffins with peanut butter and raspberry jam.
I am from the silt sand that lies next to the Russian River.
(Soft, hot, light, infiltrating everywhere).
I am from the hydrangea bush,
And the red berry bush whose
Leaves would absorb our soccer and baseballs.
I am from cold cookie dough and kinky fuzzy hair,
From Yolanda and Vernon.
I’m from the heart of stone and
The gets lost in a paper bag.
From it’s the price you pay for being a jock
to put on some make-up.
I am from pellet guns, exploding apples
Ball tag, king (queen) of the raft.
I’m from Trinity and Baldwin.
Mashed potatoes and cold Coca Cola.
From the carpenter hands of my grandfather
The red hair my mom hopes will appear in the next generation.
In our attic is a hope chest,
Dripping old pictures.
A slew of past times and faces,
To laugh and remember.
I am the culmination of those moments.
So today was the first day of the writing fellowship. The above is my rendition of a poem by George Ella Lyon. It was a great first day, and I feel genuinely inspired...which is good because there are many more days ahead of me. The title was a name game we played where you had to come up with an alliteration on your name of things you liked. I think it helped everyone remember me because I am wearing an orange shirt today.
Keep coming back as I plan to post my daily writings here in the afternoon...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
