The piece that i wrote was inspired by a special person from my past; she was a great woman who screwed me over. I was watching a movie called First Love: The Litter on the Breeze. the movie is a satire of the early films of wong kar wai, they usually involve people in love or love sick or heartbroken. the stories are usually multilayer with a minimal-hyper link style. films by him i recommend are days of being wild, chungking express, fallen angels and in the mood for love, as well as as tears go by and happy together. and maybe ashes of time, which i love but isn't for everybody. any way first love deals with that, first loves.
i got to reminiscing about this woman i knew and decided to write the story of our brief relationship. she had a big impact on my life because she showed me how complicated love could be, as you'll read in the story, how complicated it was for me.
I tried to go for a semi-experimental thing: time warps, flashbacks, self commentary/reflection, story about writing the story, etc. hopefully it worked!
revision: well, whatever prof. dragan says i have to work on, i'll work on.
this type of writing was kind of easy for me. of all genres of non fiction i'm used to it has to be memoir; the first thing i wrote that got me recognized by my high school teacher was a memoir of my childhood. I have used personal stories before, but for prose fiction as sources of inspiration.
I don't really know what i learned from writing this other than i can reach down into myself, replay bad memories and actually be able to document them as a story, and come out of it alive!
I wrote the story by long hand, i feel more comfortable with a pen, i feel that my fingers typing can not compete with the speed of my thought process and i fear i won't get everything down. pen usually comes out very illegible so it takes some "translating."
excerpt from: "You're only a baby, and you know how to make love."
She was older than I was, may be somewhere around ten years my elder, an artist I met at a party through a friend. She took a liking to me quickly, impressed by my knowledge of art and political views; we spent the night refilling each others drinks, talking about communism and the avant garde, every now and then her hand would appear on my knee.
I sensed her interest in me, beyond my intellect and artistic aspirations and our conversation; I was too shy to indulge. I had been down roads like this before; thinking the woman in front of me was attracted to me and even understood me, only to be let down and heart broken. She didn't bother with the mind games the others played, leading you on and on to the point where you ask them out or for a number, they just laugh and walk away.
I walked her to the bus stop and we continued to talk, it was late and the winter was in full effect with gusts of icy wind that made you want to crawl into any hole for warmth. When the bus arrived some time, art movements, historical events and song lyrics later, she invited me to spend the night.
“Honey, it's too late. Just come to my place.”
People on the bus stared at how close we got to each other, I guess these bourgeois bastards weren't used to seeing a couple like us. Drunk and hugging and whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears, she would tease me by telling me how long it had been since she was with a man and caressed my leg slowly til she reached my groin and smiled in to my face. Others turned around as she spoke and I shot them a dead man's stare as they turned right back around. I didn't care about them, they were nothing to us. We were too drunk to care and free to give a shit and buckle under the pressure of their “standards.” We were rejects of love and relationships. They were probably the ones who wouldn't give us their numbers or a date or even interest or the slightest attraction. Lost, we found ourselves in each others arms as their stares of ridicule and hatred, disapproval and misunderstanding, put two little drunks under a love spell.
We were all over each other by the time we got to her place. Drunk and lusting after each others bodies, we stripped each others clothes, passionately kissing, colliding with walls and the night table and lamps. I pushed her onto the bed and she stretched her limbs out like she didn’t have a care, and with her sparkling eyes she sent carnal telepathic instructions to me and I went to her like the lonely love-sick soul I was.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Blog Assignment #9: Final Workshop Reflection
Now that the semester is ending, it is time for retrospects and reflections, forms of analytical nostalgia. I enjoyed much of the class. The assignments were very helpful, intending to evolve us from the writer i was when i first entered the class. The blogs were also very useful in trying to collect and create ideas for stories or see what others are working on and what their aesthetic and writing are all about .I think i must have grown as a writer after this class. I had never written nonfiction before, it was my first attempt at trying to write stories that are true or based on "true events." I had mostly written short stories, fictional stories, that were more or less "me" on the page.
I like to write about the darker side of america: the poor, the damned, the depressed, the ones who have given up hope or are stuck in some physical/psychological/emotional rut. these characters were usually of the less reputable players of society: junkies, dealers, working girls, con men, gangsters, hobos, wanderers, commies, nihilists and others i consider dionysian martyr/saints of our great, blessed nation of the united states.
usually my stories are tales of people stuck in a place and delving into the things that will ultimately hold responsibility for their demise (a depressed catholic who drinks himself to death when the woman he loves won't return his love) i would make characters that were basically extensions or exaggerations of myself, once i picture a character in a setting, i attribute different emotions and feelings i have to that character and have them either solve their problem or martyr and die eventually. that used to be the closest to nonfiction i ever got to in my stories, the actual true emotions and feelings, mentality i have.
After this class, i started writing about the one person i really understand and know the most - myself. Now instead of fictional drunks and junkies or fictional depressed nihilistic love sick wanderers; it was me on the page documenting events in my life that actually inspired the feelings for my prose fiction.
i found myself having to recall dialogue and details i didn't really think i could remember, and conceiving a story out of that.
Of all the writing i enjoyed the most would have to be capote's in cold blood. i became fascinated with capote after i read a quote by him where he said that jack kerouac's on the road was not "written" but merely "typed." After that the hoffman movie came out; i was familiar with robert blake and studied in cold blood in a film class; i wanted to read capote but never got to it. After a class where his novel was described as the first non fiction novel i got really antsy and started reading. My fascination with the text is not really the content but his creative process. He actually interviewed people to get his story. For some reason i always pictured the great writer at a desk, at 2 in the morning, chain smoking cigarettes and taking a swig of whiskey or wine, and just hammering down on some type writer, a very introverted, almost hermit like existence. I pictured great writers being misanthropes who exile themselves from society and write the true story of life on earth. Capote changed that and showed me the benefits, and verification and authenticity you can achieve with just being a little friendly and opening up. i think that’s what the most important thing i learned from this class - to let others tell me a story, their story, and make art out of it.
excerpt from Walking Catholic
By this point my father began to argue with my mother, accusing her of raising a dissident or free thinker. “You don't take him to church; you don't check up on him, you do nothing.” My mother was a gentle, loving and tolerant person. I'm sure she felt the same as my father about the communist tendencies I held, but she wouldn't be the
same as him. I hated hearing the yelling, my mother arguing with him for also not doing anything. I heard the thud of something hitting the wall. When I saw what it was I balled up my fist – the Manifesto.
As they argued, I picked up the book and put on my jacket.
“Where the hell are you going?!”
“Although you need it more than I do, I'm going to church.”
I left the apartment and they continued, he probably thought I was trying to be a smart-ass. I went down the stairs and down the street; I forgave them though; they knew not what they said, thought and did. I lit a cigarette and sat on the steps of St. Anthony's cathedral. I rolled the Manifesto into my coat pocket and reflected on what just happened. Would my father be cool by the time I came back, does he really think I'm a communist, would he really treat me like a degenerate if I was...Was I a communist?
I always felt at peace when I was inside of the church, the stain glass windows, although depicting acts of torture and death, i.e. the passion of Christ, were beautiful to me. The music was always so majestic and calming, a gentle and somber tone throughout the Lord’s house. I went in and as my mind's ear overheard my father calling be a bastard commie, mocking me as another Che Guevara, I lay down on one of the benches as mass begins and I read the Communist Manifesto.
I like to write about the darker side of america: the poor, the damned, the depressed, the ones who have given up hope or are stuck in some physical/psychological/emotional rut. these characters were usually of the less reputable players of society: junkies, dealers, working girls, con men, gangsters, hobos, wanderers, commies, nihilists and others i consider dionysian martyr/saints of our great, blessed nation of the united states.
usually my stories are tales of people stuck in a place and delving into the things that will ultimately hold responsibility for their demise (a depressed catholic who drinks himself to death when the woman he loves won't return his love) i would make characters that were basically extensions or exaggerations of myself, once i picture a character in a setting, i attribute different emotions and feelings i have to that character and have them either solve their problem or martyr and die eventually. that used to be the closest to nonfiction i ever got to in my stories, the actual true emotions and feelings, mentality i have.
After this class, i started writing about the one person i really understand and know the most - myself. Now instead of fictional drunks and junkies or fictional depressed nihilistic love sick wanderers; it was me on the page documenting events in my life that actually inspired the feelings for my prose fiction.
i found myself having to recall dialogue and details i didn't really think i could remember, and conceiving a story out of that.
Of all the writing i enjoyed the most would have to be capote's in cold blood. i became fascinated with capote after i read a quote by him where he said that jack kerouac's on the road was not "written" but merely "typed." After that the hoffman movie came out; i was familiar with robert blake and studied in cold blood in a film class; i wanted to read capote but never got to it. After a class where his novel was described as the first non fiction novel i got really antsy and started reading. My fascination with the text is not really the content but his creative process. He actually interviewed people to get his story. For some reason i always pictured the great writer at a desk, at 2 in the morning, chain smoking cigarettes and taking a swig of whiskey or wine, and just hammering down on some type writer, a very introverted, almost hermit like existence. I pictured great writers being misanthropes who exile themselves from society and write the true story of life on earth. Capote changed that and showed me the benefits, and verification and authenticity you can achieve with just being a little friendly and opening up. i think that’s what the most important thing i learned from this class - to let others tell me a story, their story, and make art out of it.
excerpt from Walking Catholic
By this point my father began to argue with my mother, accusing her of raising a dissident or free thinker. “You don't take him to church; you don't check up on him, you do nothing.” My mother was a gentle, loving and tolerant person. I'm sure she felt the same as my father about the communist tendencies I held, but she wouldn't be the
same as him. I hated hearing the yelling, my mother arguing with him for also not doing anything. I heard the thud of something hitting the wall. When I saw what it was I balled up my fist – the Manifesto.
As they argued, I picked up the book and put on my jacket.
“Where the hell are you going?!”
“Although you need it more than I do, I'm going to church.”
I left the apartment and they continued, he probably thought I was trying to be a smart-ass. I went down the stairs and down the street; I forgave them though; they knew not what they said, thought and did. I lit a cigarette and sat on the steps of St. Anthony's cathedral. I rolled the Manifesto into my coat pocket and reflected on what just happened. Would my father be cool by the time I came back, does he really think I'm a communist, would he really treat me like a degenerate if I was...Was I a communist?
I always felt at peace when I was inside of the church, the stain glass windows, although depicting acts of torture and death, i.e. the passion of Christ, were beautiful to me. The music was always so majestic and calming, a gentle and somber tone throughout the Lord’s house. I went in and as my mind's ear overheard my father calling be a bastard commie, mocking me as another Che Guevara, I lay down on one of the benches as mass begins and I read the Communist Manifesto.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Blog Assignment #7: Midterm Reflection
Although i have completed only a handful of the assignments i feel that i have done a sufficient amount to be able to reflect on my work.
Well, originally, i used to think that non fiction meant that every word written was true, that all that the author said was supposed to have happened. After the lesson on Truman Capote, i thought maybe there was room for fiction in a story "inspired" or "based" on "true events."
I mostly thought of bios, auto-bios, memoirs, history, political writing, hunter thompson and gonzo, bukowski and his dirty old man column. I was unsure that i could write "real" stories, but, back to Capote, you can embellish. I guess the source has to be a true event or story, but the details, which might or might not be fiction, remake or relive that true event, better than let say if you watched the coverage on the news.
I feel my writing has changed a bit, some of the assignments were right up my alley and actually gave me the opportunity to write something i had been wanting to write for a while now, and hell, i'm getting a grade for it, so that was nice.
I'm used to writing short stories, based on personal events and feelings i have or had, but exaggerated to the point where it becomes fiction. Writing non fiction, with myself still as the main character, is not that different from my fiction writing, but less extreme i guess. I feel sort of like Bukowski, who wrote basically biographical stories and novels, but yet are always categorized as fiction.
The blog assignments have been helping, although they pile on top of the assignments, they are an easy grade and are also a great way to see what other people are writing, their thoughts, insight, feedback, two cents, and style are all greatly appreciated.
Well, originally, i used to think that non fiction meant that every word written was true, that all that the author said was supposed to have happened. After the lesson on Truman Capote, i thought maybe there was room for fiction in a story "inspired" or "based" on "true events."
I mostly thought of bios, auto-bios, memoirs, history, political writing, hunter thompson and gonzo, bukowski and his dirty old man column. I was unsure that i could write "real" stories, but, back to Capote, you can embellish. I guess the source has to be a true event or story, but the details, which might or might not be fiction, remake or relive that true event, better than let say if you watched the coverage on the news.
I feel my writing has changed a bit, some of the assignments were right up my alley and actually gave me the opportunity to write something i had been wanting to write for a while now, and hell, i'm getting a grade for it, so that was nice.
I'm used to writing short stories, based on personal events and feelings i have or had, but exaggerated to the point where it becomes fiction. Writing non fiction, with myself still as the main character, is not that different from my fiction writing, but less extreme i guess. I feel sort of like Bukowski, who wrote basically biographical stories and novels, but yet are always categorized as fiction.
The blog assignments have been helping, although they pile on top of the assignments, they are an easy grade and are also a great way to see what other people are writing, their thoughts, insight, feedback, two cents, and style are all greatly appreciated.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Blog Assignment # 6: Author's Note on Assignment # 2 - Writing on a place
excerpt from "New Union Square"
I leave the L train, a flood of people leave with me, the most of them are dreadful hipsters, new york’s latest pest problem, The scurry out to head back to their nest – New Union Square. I call it New Union Square, for one reason, it’s not what it used to be.
Usually when I leave my house and my father will ask be where I’m off to, my response is usually union square or 14th street; he followed my response with a suspicious look. I knew that look, I would just assure him, “no, don’t worry.” My father thinks that union square is the same from what it was in the 70s: a hangout for countercultures, beatniks and rebels, poets and artists, commies and hippies, slackers and burn outs; he mostly remembers the drug dealers, muggers, hustlers, con-men, working girls and “fags”, though. “Pop, it’s nothing that no more, man.” Unfortunately.
Coming from Brooklyn, boarding the second car of the train, i end up right on 14th street itself when i get to my stop, Union Squre; up the stairs, past the underground newspaper stand and up the stairs till i see the light of day, lighting a cigarette, i notice all the people, the smiles on their faces and shopping bags in their hands, the quirky fashions sported by them, talking of parties in williamsburg and the east village, of chiq bars and places they’ve seen on on Lx New York. I loathe coming here.
-inspiration: one of my favorite places to hang out has gotta be union square, from union/14 you can down east to the village, down for soho or chinatown, or up to chelsea, but i rarely do; it is also a place a that i hate deeply. I used to read about all the stuff that went on there in the old days, political rallies and demonstrations, poetry reading and art shows, nihilistic hipsters and down trodden hustlers, hookers who'd give ya a lay for 20 dollars, primo dime bags of tea, or scag, etc. Now there's the farmer's food market!
Union square is very different from what it once was, now its infested with shoe stores, and lights fill the night sky with their names; go their to shop, not to cop, get laid or husle a buck or two. Like i mentioned in the peice, my father still thinks its that way; Bullshit, you can't cop with a sawt team bumrushing yo' ass, there hasn't been a hooker their since god knows when, and there are way to many puercos around to do anything. I always wished i could have been there, but like most of the people i know, i was born in the wrong damn year.
-what did i learn from writing this piece?
Well, i realized how much of a miserable, misanthropic, sadist i am to keep going back to a place i hate. all jokes aside, i did something in the piece that i call time mash ups, or juxtapositions, or "time warps, where things from different decades and era are put together for a artistic affect or to compliment or comment on each other. i've been thinking of doing this for a story i've yet to write but have thought about extensively, its a wild story of a 1940s hipster in love with a chinatown hooker set in the post war era, with pop culture and historical mash ups of the turn of the century to like 50s new york.
-writing: like most of the things i write, i write by hand; i've mentioned before that i don't trust the keyboard to keep up with by thoughts, and i feel i can catch more by longhand.
I leave the L train, a flood of people leave with me, the most of them are dreadful hipsters, new york’s latest pest problem, The scurry out to head back to their nest – New Union Square. I call it New Union Square, for one reason, it’s not what it used to be.
Usually when I leave my house and my father will ask be where I’m off to, my response is usually union square or 14th street; he followed my response with a suspicious look. I knew that look, I would just assure him, “no, don’t worry.” My father thinks that union square is the same from what it was in the 70s: a hangout for countercultures, beatniks and rebels, poets and artists, commies and hippies, slackers and burn outs; he mostly remembers the drug dealers, muggers, hustlers, con-men, working girls and “fags”, though. “Pop, it’s nothing that no more, man.” Unfortunately.
Coming from Brooklyn, boarding the second car of the train, i end up right on 14th street itself when i get to my stop, Union Squre; up the stairs, past the underground newspaper stand and up the stairs till i see the light of day, lighting a cigarette, i notice all the people, the smiles on their faces and shopping bags in their hands, the quirky fashions sported by them, talking of parties in williamsburg and the east village, of chiq bars and places they’ve seen on on Lx New York. I loathe coming here.
-inspiration: one of my favorite places to hang out has gotta be union square, from union/14 you can down east to the village, down for soho or chinatown, or up to chelsea, but i rarely do; it is also a place a that i hate deeply. I used to read about all the stuff that went on there in the old days, political rallies and demonstrations, poetry reading and art shows, nihilistic hipsters and down trodden hustlers, hookers who'd give ya a lay for 20 dollars, primo dime bags of tea, or scag, etc. Now there's the farmer's food market!
Union square is very different from what it once was, now its infested with shoe stores, and lights fill the night sky with their names; go their to shop, not to cop, get laid or husle a buck or two. Like i mentioned in the peice, my father still thinks its that way; Bullshit, you can't cop with a sawt team bumrushing yo' ass, there hasn't been a hooker their since god knows when, and there are way to many puercos around to do anything. I always wished i could have been there, but like most of the people i know, i was born in the wrong damn year.
-what did i learn from writing this piece?
Well, i realized how much of a miserable, misanthropic, sadist i am to keep going back to a place i hate. all jokes aside, i did something in the piece that i call time mash ups, or juxtapositions, or "time warps, where things from different decades and era are put together for a artistic affect or to compliment or comment on each other. i've been thinking of doing this for a story i've yet to write but have thought about extensively, its a wild story of a 1940s hipster in love with a chinatown hooker set in the post war era, with pop culture and historical mash ups of the turn of the century to like 50s new york.
-writing: like most of the things i write, i write by hand; i've mentioned before that i don't trust the keyboard to keep up with by thoughts, and i feel i can catch more by longhand.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Blog Assignment #4 – Writing on a Photo
(sorry, i was not able to copy the picture, but here's a link, http://museum.icp.org/museum/exhibitions/kelty/kelty_press.htm, its the third one down, the one with the blue tint)
the first thing i noticed about the photo was the blue tint or lens used to take the picture. When i saw what the photo was of, or who was in the picture, i thought this was perfect. The photo is a group picture of the clowns from the ringling bros. and barnum and bailey circus.
I was never too into the circus. I wasn't afraid of clowns or anything of that matter, and when i would go to madison square garden with my father, i never thought it was boring. But i never got into it. My father would ask me if i wanted to go to the circus, i would simply respond with a nod or shoulder shrug, "why not?" But lately circus life has fascinated me, particularly because of my interest in vaudeville, which can be seen as the successor of the original circus.
Clowns have also fascinated me, don't really know why, i guess i see them as the original entertainers, the guys that paved the way for the art of comedy.
Upon seeing that the photo was that of a group of circus clowns, with the tint of purple blue, i immediately thought of "Tears of a Clown," the song by smokey and the miracles. I began then to play the song in my head, lyrics like:
Although appearing to be happy, and laughing their painted heads off, if you look closely most of the clowns are either not smiling, down right frowning or looking angry, or, at the least, give a little grin or smirk to the camera. I have heard that some clowns are depressed, drunks or social outcasts. Others might be really into their job and the happiness transcends their situation or their state. They might have that joy of laughter that lets them overcome personal hardships, so they might actually me happy; but not these clowns.
They sport the most common outfit, baggy one piece suits that look like they were fitted on baby circus elephants, with huge polka dots scattered around the suit, truffles around their necks, remind me of a noose, exaggerated large shoes, probably the tramp's source for his look, some wear little beanies, other coned hats that look more like bugles or old loud speakers; a minstrel performer stands behind the three "midgets," he's got the stereotypical "coon" look down: the small hat, the hideous flannel suit with a 3/4 length jacket, i wonder if he means to do this - is he a racist shit or some down and out cat who knew he could make money off a poisonous type of entertainment, the three dwarf men are also painted up, they look like kiddy clowns - they hold and blow bugles or trumpets but look like mad bellhops, a figure who i think might own or run the circus operation stands in the front row looking like charlie's tramp personae, one circus worker in the front row to the left looks like some post black tuesday wandering hobo laborer, my favorite clown outfit is worn by the big clown in the first row at the end on the right side, it has designs of crescent moons filled with five pointed stars, but i like the make up of the one to his left.
My favorite clown though is the one at the end of the second row on the right, of all the clowns he is the one that popped at me, due to his facial expression. Although painted up with a huge clownish smile, he looks totally pissed off. Smokey's song plays in my head, il pagliacci comes to mind, the vesti la guibba seers through the mind's ear, i see him cranky and grumpy, grunting and hissing at those who want a word with him, but, he is the guy to see to show you the ropes when you just join the circus, he's been here the longest; he's billed as "the world's happiest clown", he'll never get you down, fuck patch addams, this clown cat cures cancer with the medicine of laughter. The children stare in gleeful wonder as they wonder about his mastery of circus magic tricks, he hands them flowers that spurt water in to their faces and handkerchiefs that go on for miles and pulls playing cards of jokers from behind their ears and he leads you on with his silence and ear to ear smile; when the show is over, he walks back to the changing room, head hung off his shoulders, treads over to his chair facing a mirror, he stares at his reflection, the world's happiest clown, and as a single tear falls from his painted face, he cracks the seal on a bottle of irish whiskey and thanks God he's part of the circus.
the first thing i noticed about the photo was the blue tint or lens used to take the picture. When i saw what the photo was of, or who was in the picture, i thought this was perfect. The photo is a group picture of the clowns from the ringling bros. and barnum and bailey circus.
I was never too into the circus. I wasn't afraid of clowns or anything of that matter, and when i would go to madison square garden with my father, i never thought it was boring. But i never got into it. My father would ask me if i wanted to go to the circus, i would simply respond with a nod or shoulder shrug, "why not?" But lately circus life has fascinated me, particularly because of my interest in vaudeville, which can be seen as the successor of the original circus.
Clowns have also fascinated me, don't really know why, i guess i see them as the original entertainers, the guys that paved the way for the art of comedy.
Upon seeing that the photo was that of a group of circus clowns, with the tint of purple blue, i immediately thought of "Tears of a Clown," the song by smokey and the miracles. I began then to play the song in my head, lyrics like:
Now if there's a smile on my face
It's only there trying to fool the public;
But don't let my glad expression
Give you the wrong impression
Really I'm sad, oh I'm sadder than sad
You're gone and I'm hurtin' so bad
Like a clown I pretend to be glad
Now there's some sad things known to man
But ain't too much sadder than
The tears of a clown, when there's no one around
really seem to be true and evident in the photo itself.But don't let my glad expression
Give you the wrong impression
Really I'm sad, oh I'm sadder than sad
You're gone and I'm hurtin' so bad
Like a clown I pretend to be glad
Now there's some sad things known to man
But ain't too much sadder than
The tears of a clown, when there's no one around
Although appearing to be happy, and laughing their painted heads off, if you look closely most of the clowns are either not smiling, down right frowning or looking angry, or, at the least, give a little grin or smirk to the camera. I have heard that some clowns are depressed, drunks or social outcasts. Others might be really into their job and the happiness transcends their situation or their state. They might have that joy of laughter that lets them overcome personal hardships, so they might actually me happy; but not these clowns.
They sport the most common outfit, baggy one piece suits that look like they were fitted on baby circus elephants, with huge polka dots scattered around the suit, truffles around their necks, remind me of a noose, exaggerated large shoes, probably the tramp's source for his look, some wear little beanies, other coned hats that look more like bugles or old loud speakers; a minstrel performer stands behind the three "midgets," he's got the stereotypical "coon" look down: the small hat, the hideous flannel suit with a 3/4 length jacket, i wonder if he means to do this - is he a racist shit or some down and out cat who knew he could make money off a poisonous type of entertainment, the three dwarf men are also painted up, they look like kiddy clowns - they hold and blow bugles or trumpets but look like mad bellhops, a figure who i think might own or run the circus operation stands in the front row looking like charlie's tramp personae, one circus worker in the front row to the left looks like some post black tuesday wandering hobo laborer, my favorite clown outfit is worn by the big clown in the first row at the end on the right side, it has designs of crescent moons filled with five pointed stars, but i like the make up of the one to his left.
My favorite clown though is the one at the end of the second row on the right, of all the clowns he is the one that popped at me, due to his facial expression. Although painted up with a huge clownish smile, he looks totally pissed off. Smokey's song plays in my head, il pagliacci comes to mind, the vesti la guibba seers through the mind's ear, i see him cranky and grumpy, grunting and hissing at those who want a word with him, but, he is the guy to see to show you the ropes when you just join the circus, he's been here the longest; he's billed as "the world's happiest clown", he'll never get you down, fuck patch addams, this clown cat cures cancer with the medicine of laughter. The children stare in gleeful wonder as they wonder about his mastery of circus magic tricks, he hands them flowers that spurt water in to their faces and handkerchiefs that go on for miles and pulls playing cards of jokers from behind their ears and he leads you on with his silence and ear to ear smile; when the show is over, he walks back to the changing room, head hung off his shoulders, treads over to his chair facing a mirror, he stares at his reflection, the world's happiest clown, and as a single tear falls from his painted face, he cracks the seal on a bottle of irish whiskey and thanks God he's part of the circus.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Blog Assignment # 3: “Author’s Note” on the Non-Fiction Vignette (Assignment #1)
excerpt from vignette, Walking Catholic (down the street):
I feel slowly easing back into the melancholia of reality though: outcast, loser, beat and alone. At times I'd pray for something to happen; gripping the crucifix around my neck I'd recite the our father and proceed to plead with our lord for an end, a beginning or anything. Reading calmed me down and always got to me to forget all that pissed me the hell off throughout the day: a hobo begging for change, ignored by all the upper classes, seen as sub-human and left to die one faithful day in their minds, young boys jumping some unsuspecting kid for whatever he held that they coveted and lusted for – money, a fake gold chain or just the motherfucked pleasure of destroying a fellow human being, girls treated like subservient whores rather than the good women they could be – they always stay with the source of their malevolent lives. My mind wanderers, very much as I do through out my living, breathing life, and always attracts the banes of my existence. As I see that it begins to rain, our lord either crying over his children or pissing all over them, he either cared or he didn't, my father walks into my room with fire in his eyes and the Communist Manifesto in his hand, and a golden crucifix with our lord, hanging from his neck.
“What's this? Why do you have this?”
-Inspiration: I am latino, a mother from guatemala and a father from ecuador, i was raised Catholic and grew up a cross the street from a church. I used to go to church with my father every sunday, but stopped a while ago. My father and mother both thought that i didn't believe anymore, but the fact was that i was too tired from hanging out or just staying up all night long. I did obtain an interest in communism and began to reject my catholic upbringing, I labeled myself an atheist. The vignette is based on a fight, that was actually a lot more heated and was tamed in the story for its own sake.
-there were not any writers i had in mind, while writing this, if i had to name some it would probably be bukowski and hemmingway
-revision: whatever feedback i get i'll consider and see if it'll work, but i'll probably add more or take out some
-i have written short stories before but never a vignette as its own piece, i did write a story consisting of vignettes, but this was harder in the sense that more has to be said in a small amount as oppose to a story structured as a set of vignettes, where you can have room to carry an idea into a other vignette, but i do enjoy writing vignettes. this is one of the first times i've sat down a written non-fiction, i tried to keep a journal but didn't keep up with posts, also had a dream journal, but neglected to even record my dreams, which i usually used as sources of inspiration for poetry and prose writing.
-writing process: i wrote the piece by long hand, i don't feel comfortable nor in control when i write creative works on a keyboard; i feel that my mind is going faster than my hands can find the right letter key and type, by hand i feel i can catch every word as it comes to me.
I feel slowly easing back into the melancholia of reality though: outcast, loser, beat and alone. At times I'd pray for something to happen; gripping the crucifix around my neck I'd recite the our father and proceed to plead with our lord for an end, a beginning or anything. Reading calmed me down and always got to me to forget all that pissed me the hell off throughout the day: a hobo begging for change, ignored by all the upper classes, seen as sub-human and left to die one faithful day in their minds, young boys jumping some unsuspecting kid for whatever he held that they coveted and lusted for – money, a fake gold chain or just the motherfucked pleasure of destroying a fellow human being, girls treated like subservient whores rather than the good women they could be – they always stay with the source of their malevolent lives. My mind wanderers, very much as I do through out my living, breathing life, and always attracts the banes of my existence. As I see that it begins to rain, our lord either crying over his children or pissing all over them, he either cared or he didn't, my father walks into my room with fire in his eyes and the Communist Manifesto in his hand, and a golden crucifix with our lord, hanging from his neck.
“What's this? Why do you have this?”
-Inspiration: I am latino, a mother from guatemala and a father from ecuador, i was raised Catholic and grew up a cross the street from a church. I used to go to church with my father every sunday, but stopped a while ago. My father and mother both thought that i didn't believe anymore, but the fact was that i was too tired from hanging out or just staying up all night long. I did obtain an interest in communism and began to reject my catholic upbringing, I labeled myself an atheist. The vignette is based on a fight, that was actually a lot more heated and was tamed in the story for its own sake.
-there were not any writers i had in mind, while writing this, if i had to name some it would probably be bukowski and hemmingway
-revision: whatever feedback i get i'll consider and see if it'll work, but i'll probably add more or take out some
-i have written short stories before but never a vignette as its own piece, i did write a story consisting of vignettes, but this was harder in the sense that more has to be said in a small amount as oppose to a story structured as a set of vignettes, where you can have room to carry an idea into a other vignette, but i do enjoy writing vignettes. this is one of the first times i've sat down a written non-fiction, i tried to keep a journal but didn't keep up with posts, also had a dream journal, but neglected to even record my dreams, which i usually used as sources of inspiration for poetry and prose writing.
-writing process: i wrote the piece by long hand, i don't feel comfortable nor in control when i write creative works on a keyboard; i feel that my mind is going faster than my hands can find the right letter key and type, by hand i feel i can catch every word as it comes to me.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Welcome to Edward Valle's CNF journal
Greeting and salutations to all brave and benevolent souls who wish to embark on a journey through contemporary America's dark side. Few may have the blissful privilege to encounter what I will discuss in this blog and others, too oblivious, too self centered and out of touch with reality will be exposed to a realm of this superficial and false world we inhabited from our ignorant ancestors and they from our maniacal lord.
I am your tour guide as well as tempter of these worlds of the underground; drugs, depression, violence, social and cultural corruption, homelessness, mass murders, empty bottles of wine and whores to expensive to love as the moon smiles, loss of god, loss of humanity, ex boyfriends who taint all men, paper cuts on the mainline and gentrification, communism, punk rock and all its disciples, marlon brando and james dean had a kid: mickey rourke wasn't it, beatniks and hippies, tim leary to charles manson, dean moriarty might have been the beautiful abrasive existential wanderer but was kind of a douche, jesus died for the sins of man, but for a select few i think, debu-cunts on 14th st walk on $300s as hobo martyrs dwell in their money made hells, tom waits growls the love story of a drunk's shot at the top as the sex pistols aggressively plead and fight for the anarchical intellectual awakening, beat saint jack, poet laureate of skid row - hank, the nihilists: old bull burroughs and the underground man, they all laugh of our sanctifying and soullessness, the chic bars of st mark's killed jim didn't it? and whatever happened to garcia lorca in spain; we contorted our selves as james white advised us to and we will til victory but what till then...
if you dug what was said please continue to read and follow, if you're like the rest of 'em:
please post your hate, loathing, distaste and ugliness for all to see
but not care about.
about the author:
i am a writer, i write short stories and this is my first attempt at non-fiction. i have written a couple of personal essays on varying topics though. i like to write about what pisses me off, the things of everyday life that which those with souls bear its onslaught and those who sleepwalk through life neglect to recognize or know nothing of its existence; i write to expose and to put it out there. revelation or realization in my readers is what i am hoping for. As a writer i want to do what the greats do for me: contemplations on the world around us, meditation and reflections on and of world and its systems; but mostly, lend a shred of hope and companionship for all those depressed, wandering, accidental existentialists and lost souls who feel there is little left.
Bukowski, jack, bill, selby, miller, fyodor and others, showed me that there were others who felt the same as i did - i wish to do the same.
I am your tour guide as well as tempter of these worlds of the underground; drugs, depression, violence, social and cultural corruption, homelessness, mass murders, empty bottles of wine and whores to expensive to love as the moon smiles, loss of god, loss of humanity, ex boyfriends who taint all men, paper cuts on the mainline and gentrification, communism, punk rock and all its disciples, marlon brando and james dean had a kid: mickey rourke wasn't it, beatniks and hippies, tim leary to charles manson, dean moriarty might have been the beautiful abrasive existential wanderer but was kind of a douche, jesus died for the sins of man, but for a select few i think, debu-cunts on 14th st walk on $300s as hobo martyrs dwell in their money made hells, tom waits growls the love story of a drunk's shot at the top as the sex pistols aggressively plead and fight for the anarchical intellectual awakening, beat saint jack, poet laureate of skid row - hank, the nihilists: old bull burroughs and the underground man, they all laugh of our sanctifying and soullessness, the chic bars of st mark's killed jim didn't it? and whatever happened to garcia lorca in spain; we contorted our selves as james white advised us to and we will til victory but what till then...
if you dug what was said please continue to read and follow, if you're like the rest of 'em:
please post your hate, loathing, distaste and ugliness for all to see
but not care about.
about the author:
i am a writer, i write short stories and this is my first attempt at non-fiction. i have written a couple of personal essays on varying topics though. i like to write about what pisses me off, the things of everyday life that which those with souls bear its onslaught and those who sleepwalk through life neglect to recognize or know nothing of its existence; i write to expose and to put it out there. revelation or realization in my readers is what i am hoping for. As a writer i want to do what the greats do for me: contemplations on the world around us, meditation and reflections on and of world and its systems; but mostly, lend a shred of hope and companionship for all those depressed, wandering, accidental existentialists and lost souls who feel there is little left.
Bukowski, jack, bill, selby, miller, fyodor and others, showed me that there were others who felt the same as i did - i wish to do the same.
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