First Examples of the Written Word

I realized that, oddly enough, no matter how much writing I've put on here, I haven't actually posted any writing samples for anyone to take a look at. I might open up a separate blog to hold all of those (probably not, I barely post on this single one as it is), but maybe every once and awhile, when I feel like gracing you all with the spectacularity of my scribblings and stylings, I'll just post something I've been working on up here. I was going to post my zuihitsu on here, but I realized that might be an issue. One: no one actually knows what a zuihitsu is, and I would be completely lost in trying to explain it because my easiest definition is that it is whatever I want it to be because I said so. Two: I kind of mention a few personal things about other people that would probably not want me to share those things, and to the people who know them it would be easy enough to identify them. I'm all for sharing personal stuff about myself, but I gotta respect my friends so that I can delay them realizing that I'm a complete and total ass.

Anyways, instead of that, here are some things I've written over the past few days for my poetry class, plus an oldie that a lot of my friends have seen already that people seem to like. Enjoy. And by that I mean read them. Repeatedly.

The Second Night of Halloween

It is 5:08 in Pittsburgh on a Monday, one day

after Halloween and the trees know it, yes it is

2011 and the leaves stop clinging to their branches

because it seems like a good time to hit

me in the face, Halloween is gone and people

are no longer smiling.

The girls go out as crayons,

colored dresses with black electrical tape around

just enough of the dress that it won’t

come off if they pull at it. Before

they go we brainstorm because there are so many slutty

clichés you can wear that we can’t choose, sexy witch, sexy astronaut—no way would she survive

in space—sexy pirate gets less sexy if I think about Jack Sparrow, and soon we have

to start getting creative, wrack our brains up one by one

to think about the next day, when everybody takes their walks

of shame, when the girls who thought the morning

after would be a clever costume shuffle along the streets

in nothing but a white shirt and cowboy boots

and the wind pulls up goosebumps on their

slick pale legs and I stand by watching, wearing

flannel for fuck’s sake and scribbling in a notebook

thinking that maybe the girls were right, no matter how

much we joke about how the girls have options on options on options

the guys have it easy.

As the Milk Falls

There is no such thing as lunch

on the weekends because Sundays don’t

like it when you do things.

There is a bag of chips in my hand,

flaming hot that I got just because

it’s my least favorite. They have an aftertaste

of ashes. Burn my tongue.

There is a Sun, barely shining, but I

almost wish it would leave me alone

because wouldn’t it be awesome if I had

one of those personal

rainclouds hovering over my head, leaving

that couple walking in front of me

fingers intertwined but silent as I used to

be when I tried to laugh, leaving the clouds

to focus on me. I wish I had an umbrella

because that scene keeps playing in my head

and as the milk falls on Gene Kelly’s head

he just can’t help but sing and that’s exactly how

I want to feel right now right here.

The Poetry of Football on a Sunday Night

Tonight, there will be men and women watching television.

Maybe the men will look up once in a while or

            the women will spend the night knitting

            hats for their children to wear during the winter months and

            maybe the children will be sitting

            far too close to the tube and

            their eyes will cross to the point where

            the pixels can only barely form shapes but

            maybe the children will still smile

            and maybe they will feel like a family or

            at least they will feel what it is like to be a family

Or maybe some of the children will be watching

from their bedrooms and the men

            will drink alone at sports bars while

            listening to the cheering that engulfs them while

            the women watch wondering what all the fuss is about or

            maybe a boy will sneak up to his room

            so quiet

            to play with a barbie while

            his sister wears her bears jersey on her fathers lap and

            his mother shakes her head knowing how little they know

            about the world

            or maybe they will take a deep deep breath.

           

All at once now.

            and the father will cheer with his daughter.

            and the mother will look up from her knitting.

            and the son will snuggle up in bed so close

            so close to a fluffy stuffed bear

            his friend will smile at him and with him.

            and maybe that is okay.

First Night of Gay Movies

I was watching a gay movie tonight instead of reading my homework or writing my novel (and I'm writing this post instead of doing both those things as well, so consider yourself thoroughly used and abused for my own procrastinationary purposes). And, at the risk of sounding like a complete dumbass, I should probably explain what a gay movie is.

There's no such thing as a gay movie. I made the name up, because I just do that and I'm just that awesomely brilliant. I control the English language. Bow down to me.

But seriously, it was a term that I made up to refer to how Hollywood deals with the subject of homosexuality. Usually, that means not well (as much as I find this funny, it kind of proves my point). A gay movie is a movie that is typically made outside of the big L.A. movie razzmatazz and portrays a more honest attempt at broaching the subject with class and some sense of respect. I say attempt because, honestly, they aren't usually good movies. I spend a lot of time picking through the bowels of Netflix Instant Watch to find some of the putrescence that I watch on a regular basis. Netflix has the unfortunate ability to drag some of the worst movies ever created from the core of the earth where they had been resting peacefully, harming no one, and giving them new life by recommending them for my viewing. Naturally, I help it along its way by diving head first into the swamp in my attempts at finding something worth my time. I rarely succeed.

Most of the gay movies I have watched--this is a generalization, but, well, this is my blog post so I can do whatever the hell I want--open up with some sort of sex scene. Usually it's homosexual in nature, but one extremely classy movie decided to juxtapose the two in an attempt to show just how similar they were. Either way, it leads me to the obvious conclusion that the first thing two gay people do when they meet each other is have sex. Obviously. Usually after that, the straight guy or gal runs across the gay guy or gal, and the typical drama ensues. You can see some variations (the gay one is the main character? GASP!) but typically they follow the predictable plot line.

Now, the premises are cliched, but maybe the movies can are more than their opening scene! They probably have good dialogue, terrific acting, a few surprises around some strategically placed corners, or--haha, no, that doesn't happen. My personal favorite opened on a man driving down the road. He stops briefly, and another man, younger, gets into his car. They appear to know each other. They then drive into the woods and have sex rather quickly. They finish. The driver asks the other man if they could make this a regular thing, implying that they have never spoken before. There is a pause. Silence fills the audience with tension. The second man headbutts the driver, who begins to bleed profusely from his broken nose. The second man runs away.

That's the quality of them, but really that's all just the set-up for tonight's happenings. Something strange, wonderful, and interesting happened to me. I was shocked when it happened, but it took me a bit to catch my breath after I had punched myself repeatedly to ensure that I was not, in fact, dreaming.

I found a good one.

DOUBLE GASP. I know. But stick with me, it's just starting to get interesting.

It was called The Gymnast, and I almost didn't watch it because Netflix had given it such a low recommendation for me that I automatically assumed that it was going to be worse than the headbutting one, but it wasn't half bad. It followed the typical plot outline above, minus the sexual opening, but it did it with class. It respected the emotions of its characters, it didn't throw them into any boxes, and only twice did I cringe at the dialogue that no actual human would say. The starring actress (omnisexual playing straight) drove the movie home for me, and her opposite-of-affectionate husband was equally brilliant. The cinematography of all things soared far above the bar (hehe gymnastics pun) and the ending respected both the audience and the characters even though you could tell where it was going. Successful.

I'm sorry to have wasted your time, but none of this is my point.

After a successful movie with not a single name-brand actor or actress, I had to do me some research. I hunted down each and every cast member and I found everything they had ever done ever. I found some interesting tidbits of info (the leading lady I liked was only really in one other movie), but, of course, it was the last one I found that caught my attention. The husband.

He died, a few months after completing principal photography. I researched farther, and I started crying.

His name was David De Simone. He took acting classes when he was studying dancing at Julliard (seriously?) at the age of 16. New York gave him the acting bug, and he started to pursue it until a cut on his hand gave him a staph infection that severely weakened his heart, barring him from both dancing and acting. 20 years later, he walked through the door at the auditions for The Gymnast, with no real prior experience. He has two other credits on IMDb, and one uncredited role from 1986 during his first run as an actor. He took the part with ease, and he nailed it. He gave it his all. And then he had a heart attack, at the age of 46, just after finally realizing his dream.

Well, that's a showstopper, isn't it? Just kind of ruined my night, and I've been sitting here trying to figure out why. I think I've settled on the fact that it basically outlined my worst fear to me, alongside a big neon sign in my head that's been flashing IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU in varying shades of orange, purple, and hot pink.

I've been asked before what I'm afraid of. Usually, I don't have an answer. My sister's afraid of spiders. One of my best friends is afraid of butterflies. Another one of my best friends is afraid of sentimentality (just kidding, Claire) but I never had an answer. Nothing really scared me. This, this story I just told you, scares the crap out of me.

I have no idea what I want to do with my life. I mean, sure, being a writer sounds good. But the question "what are you going to do with an English Major" has been asked by puppets much smarter than me, and they didn't really come up with an answer. I've been trying to pick up a to-be-determined second major to "round out my options", but that's doublespeak for I don't know what the hell I'm doing in four years. I kind of figured this general feeling of inadequacy would fade after a bit after high school. Yeah, that happened.

Worst comes to worst, I could always write the screenplay for a gay movie. That has to pay, like, at least $15. Maybe $20 if I promise not to speak while the director changes everything I wrote on the page. I think I'd like that.