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.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
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.
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