22 Sept. 2019: An Image and An Idea

22 Sept. 2019. On the front of the truck parked facing me in Oregon, Ill.

φ  You even don’t have to fret about other drivers not using their turn signals!

‘Days go by like nights’: Exquisite Corpse poems, Fall 2019, 10th hour CW class

Here are this semester’s 10th period Creative Writing class’s poems written in the Exquisite Corpse method.  What I love about these lines is how they were created almost randomly but have a kinda of weird logic. I like how some of these seem almost brilliant, in an obtuse way. See here for previous semesters’ poems.

The best ideas come in dreams that don’t come true.

Hard is always math sometimes.

Tonight I will try to be late or not.

Butter is what I put the lime in.

Under the evil mask, he washes his blue cars.

Look, a bird — oh, my brother went to college.

In the dark side of the moon, eclipses are beautiful.

Hill tops can be pointy like the edge of the things.

We lived happily ever before, but not anymore.

As the wind blew, hard work pays off.

My feet hurt so much love can be meaningful.

Emotions aren’t always heard noises in the background of a picture.

The world and only you are very loud.

Are people weird like I like to be?

Meanings are just a dictionary to find the meanings.

Together we are a Big Bang theory.

Names can be weird but nothing ever makes sense.

A willow tree flows through my hair as my eyes closed the ocean.

Very beautiful people are ugly caterpillars.

Scary novels make me vomit up your lunch.

Time can be very slowly run.

I really want to sleep together at night with it.

With it being rainy, my sister has two cats.

Days go by like nights.

Pizza is not always good deeds and forgiveness.

Running is so boring that one day the world is.

Getting sunburnt like a pig inside the deep abyss.

A good corndog is dog wrapped in the lonely forest by the luck that we will go undefeated this season.

Sweetie, you don’t need to lead us to our life.

Our only dog ran away with you, you peasant.

Please say thank you next time flies by in high school.

Sucking on toes isn’t your favorite color.

Happiness is a warm smile because you’re beautiful, yet so ugly; still, I do not know that you are unique.

People are very slow at times. They smell like turtles.

Time is relative to a dog.

Yesterday was so dry and so the clock is the sky.

When I’m lonely, I feel very awake. Somebody once told me that I was a rockstar. I am bored in green eggs and ham.

Tape your mouth shut because bad breath sucks bad when you eat your own boogers on Spongebob’s greasy spatula from Spongebob the show.

Fearful eyes look at moons’ swoon like debutantes’ fantasy.

Thinking that I’m not-normal

I thought this morning about my own social awkwardness—how it doesn’t hurt [There was a weird “Ooaah” loud, high-pitched, then declining, sound from the direction of the counter-worker {at this coffeeshop} telling an old man in teal sweater and white pants that there was a help-yourself water station—this could be dude who sneezed earlier] to think of myself as not-normal, or not quite normal, in the sense that thinking that would keep me from judging other socially awkward people. Thinking that I’m not-normal reminds me to be patient, accepting [and accepting the cold I just felt pour down on me as a person left the store—maybe from air coming up and over vestibule’s glass walls]. [Pages 124-5, Sat. 16 March 2019, Meg’s Daily Grind, Rockford, Ill. See random-selection editing process here.]

So much dross!

I don’t try to communicate through my drawings—so why should I try to communicate through my writings? [Fri. 18 Oct. 2019]

Maybe I don’t care which texts of mine I publish to the blog. The texts just offer readers an experience of hanging out with and listening to me. [18 Oct. 2019]

My journal texts: so much dross! Once I’m dead, no one will care—and that’s OK—it’s freeing. These texts aren’t set-and-dead [as texts seem once they’re published]. Openness: However I wrote that I feel today, I won’t necessarily feel that same way tomorrow. I can embrace being weird—I might as well! That way I don’t have to try to seem normal by justifying or defending my writings or myself. I can let go of trying to seem normal and instead just seem my weird self. [Sat. 19 Oct. 2019]

15 Nov. 2015

 

Drinking party and baby rabbits: December 1987 days in Journal 1

The journal/diary entries below were written in my youthful handwriting and found jammed inside Journal 1. I’m in 8th grade in the entries below.

Monday, 7 Dec. 1987: I finished typing my letter in C.S. [Communications Studies class]. I put the antlers on my reindeer [a crafting project in Home Ec class, I think] after school and Dad took me into Rochelle to the library to drop off books and to Walmart. Our library card has expired. I stayed up late doing lit.

Tues., 8 Dec. 1987: We redid our transaction sheets as we got a letter from Dekalb [I’m not sure what that means]. I finished my cross-stitch reindeer today. Billy Cornett and I worked at concessions after school. [Brother] Nace saw the game and he helped us with the pop.

Weds., 9 Dec. 1987: We finished watching a movie in C.S. and the periods were only 30 minutes long today because we got our early, 1:30, for conferences. Nace didn’t get out early. [Brother] Dan hasn’t gone to school for 2 days now. I cleaned the manure out of my rabbit’s cage. We watched 2 Christmas specials on TV, “Frosty” and “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.”

Thurs., 10 Dec. 1987: [Band teacher] Mr. Sisler told us today that we might play to the grade schools on next Friday. In Algebra, I learned that Carin is moving next year. In Home Ec., I put the lace on my ornament. I stayed in at lunch and talked about Animal Farm [a book I was reading as independent project apart from the rest of the class]. We took a hard test in P.E. I finished the back to my ornament after school. Dad and I made a nest box for my rabbit. I got my homework done early, but I stayed up late double-checking it.

Fri., 11 Dec. 1987: I was called out of Band and Algebra for activity pictures. I had my picture taken for Band, Stage band, soccer, and concessions. I finished my ornament in Home Ec. I took an exam in C.S. on Animal Farm. I went to Krista’s house for a party at about 7:00. First the kids threw cards, then they drank liquor and went in the closet. Mark and I didn’t drink or anything, we played tapes and talked.  [Reading this in 2019, I’m contrasting it to my memory of that night, feeling awkward and wanting to leave and not wanting to be doing any of what the other kids were doing. I seem to have understated my reaction in the journal entry above, or to have remembered it as being much more uncomfortable than I wrote at the time.]

Sat., 12 Dec. 1987: I got up late and I didn’t do my rabbit chores until 3:00. We cleaned house and then went to Rochelle. Dan went to practice and Nace, Mom and I went to Spurgeon’s [clothing store], RW Liquidators, and Aunt Mary’s [Yarn, I think]. We saw a very neat little tree made from tiny items. It cost $194.00. We went back and got Dan and we returned to Aunt Mary’s, where I bought four counted cross-stick kits and the others bought things, too. We bought our tree from Ron’s in Ashton. Then the boys, Mom and I went to Byron. I bought the Happy Holidays cassette. We had pot pies for supper after Mom and Dad went to a party. I tried to put on the lights, but I didn’t do so well. Mom and Dad came home early, mom felt sick.

Sun., 13 Dec. 1987: We decorated the tree this morning. Mom put up the lights. We used four strings on the tree. We melted a hole in the rug from a frosted bulb when we were testing the string it was on. I started sewing on my cube [for Home Ec.]. After lunch, Mom and Dad went Christmas shopping, and they took Nace and Dan to [grandma] Phoebe’s. I was a little scared by myself because I heard wood creaking. I finished my cube tonight. Mom and Dad and the boys came around 6:00. I lit up the tree tonight. Nace said that my rabbit was getting excited and making a next.

Mon., 14 Dec. 1987: My rabbit did have rabbits today! I saw at least two during evening chores. They’re hairless! We took a text in Algebra, we are going to finish it tomorrow. I worked on my cube in Home Ec. It is predicted to snow tonight.

Tues., 15 Dec. 1987: I awoke at 6:15 to the crack of lightning and boom of thunder. The storm thundered and lightninged at least a dozen times more. I look at my clock. I read 4:40. The power had gone off and didn’t return until around 10:00. We got 11.4 inches of snow during last night and today. Schools were called off and Dad got off work too. There was a lot of snow in the rabbit part of the barn. There were three lambings today. The second lamb was found by Dad and we all had to revive him. Dad and I shoveled snow. We watched Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer tonight.

I lived my life in a different context: Random bits from Journal 234

There’s something about the new concussionball season—that it’s pretty much just like all the other seasons. There won’t be much that’s brand new—which, I know, is what fans like: minor variations within known and set rules. But I’d like some novelty, I guess. My old joke: “Hey, there’s football game on–wanna watch?” “Nah, I’ve already seen a football game.” Not a hilarious joke, or even a funny joke, but comic in that it misunderstands the fan mentality. And of course, the business of sports requires multiple games, multiple seasons for revenue and, of course, there’s some value in the tradition. Winning the Superbowl in its first few years probably didn’t mean as much as it does in the 50th year of that prize, once the prize is known. Of course, by year 50, your team’s win makes it only one of 50 winners. [Page 96-7, Sunday, 4 Sept. 2016]

The school days make the day go slowly, in a good way—to be alive each day at work, to know I’m alive. Sometimes the amount of work seems overwhelming. Neighbor Beth walks Lou-dog just now. A student wrote that his dad beat his dog after the dog chewed the dad’s boots. That’s probably not great (an understatement, and I’m not sure why). It makes me feel bad, when jackasses beat dogs. Dogs are so wonderful—and it’s not like beating them does anything but make the beater into a monster. Dogs as nonviolent protestors? [Page 68-9, Friday, 2 Sept 2016]

I feel bad for how busy students taking A.P. courses are–take a study hall instead! Ah, well. I lived my life differently, in a different context. There weren’t A.P. courses offered to me. But, you know, these kids could—but don’t have to—max out on stress here. I’m pretty happy with my life. It is a little odd that we make choosing a career such a big deal when, frankly, we all get to a point of settling. Maybe that’s cynical to say, but I don’t say it out of bitterness. I mean it in the best way possible—not even “settling” but letting go of ambition. Ambition  belongs to the young, and even there it might not be so great. What if following your goals (your usually arbitrarily chosen goals) is exhausting, doesn’t make you happy, anyway?

I read or saw something—the statement that someone (the “I” speaker) was willing to do anything to reach his/her goal. But why, I thought? As I’ve said before, how do you really know you want that goal you’re working so hard for—how do you know you’ll be happy in that job? I had a thought last night—got a fortune cookie message last night: “Learn Chinese: Still, Hai” and “Lucky #4, 7, 34, 22, 50, 32,” but also, “Your dearest wish will come true,” and I actually felt a little hopeful—”Maybe I will publish a book of my own writings, done my own way, and it’ll be popular!” But I also (or later) thought: maybe what maturity is is getting what you want while also being wise enough to know how to take it, how to receive it, how to react to it—which is to say: maybe I publish a book only once I’m also aware that doing so won’t be all that big a deal. That even if you published and won a Pulitzer, you still have to live your life, deal with dog poop and back pain and daily classes—new students won’t care who I am. [Page 22-43, Sabado, 27 Augustus 2016]

What matters is a focus on my own life, interests, being alive, thoughts and feelings, writing what I want to write. Living in a way where I choose what I want to do, you know? I mean, instead of doing things for others, to try to impress others. The last thing I’d want right now (well, OK, not the last) would be to be nominated for the Man Booker prize—who wrote the best example of the novel genre. I don’t want to write to those standards, to that outcome. Teaching poetry, sometimes I do read kids’ work aloud to the class (anonymously) and maybe this gives them a notion that there’s a standard for writing poetry, that they should be externally focused on product rather than internally focused on process, on their writerly experience. It’s hard to focus on internal/personal/individual experience in the classroom setting, which is kinda outwardly focused on doing what teacher asks, earning the grade, though I do try to focus on process, on having them try, on giving them some leeway.  [Page 170-1, Weds. 14 Sept. 2016]

‘It can be a secret now?’: Exquisite Corpse poems, Fall 2019, 4-5th period

Here are this semester’s 4-5th period Creative Writing class’s poems written in the Exquisite Corpse method.  What I love about these lines is how they were created almost randomly but have a kinda of weird logic. I like how some of these seem almost brilliant, in an obtuse way. See here for previous semesters’ poems.

Flowers smell good, and, look, it’s a rat. Ahh, OK.

Not so much are you this.

Away I ran with nothing red.

The dog just keeps going to convince you that you are beautiful.

Quit being such a tiny hummingbird that flew like the wild hunt.

Physical traits are great to have.

Do you understand, kid, you’re the apple?

No, I’m not “heh” like a bunch of cats in the litter boxers.

I wrote to who is your special secret.

People are dumb and complicated. I’m so dang complicated.

I cannot lie to me like I’m a clown.

Die in a whole.

An inappropriate word is bongo and bingo. I like Uno better than the last one off the rough ground.

Songs about love come from melons.

Equations are the dumbest Cheez-its.

Dang, my life—is it going to happen?

Bored love is amazing and sweet like drops of sprinkles on the house.

Swing by sometime, or maybe just Marvin Gaye and get too big for me.

Blue hats are cool just like no one else you knew.

Who didn’t flush after I went to a house in the point of this is creativity?

It will be soon.

Take another hint, I guess.

Brussel sprouts are fire and have straight ice hanging off my neck.

Neck of the snake vanishes like dead demons evaporate.

Bomb.com, a website where you, me, we’re face to face.

Here is the end of the smart people who can recite Miranda rights to party.

Humpty Dumpty, like, sat on the wall. Bang. What even is that? Is not cool, man. Oh, well.

Park parallel literally anywhere you would like to.

It can be a secret now?

She is too fast for you, slow Poker Face by Lady Gaga waduba romance.