Toe Tag on a Shoe

I want to write a real post soon so that the million and a half people who read my last really depressing one (seriously, what the hell guys) don't just think that I'm a total buzz-kill who sucks a lot.

Because I'm not. Usually.

But, alas, I didn't.

So instead, here's a poem that I wrote a bit ago but haven't shared yet.


Toe Tag on a Shoe

One of these days

I’m going to write a calling card

And tattoo it on the bottom

of my foot:

If found please return

To another time

(Maybe another place

if you can find one

better)

So when I’m found

With my head in my arms

Warm blood turning thick

in my sluggish veins

Some kind soul

can revive me

with my own instructions.

Only the Nice Stuff

So, thought I would give you a little clarification about yesterday's post.

Because it was a little formal for me.

And coherent.

And not swear-y.

I'm in a newswriting and reporting class, and we write articles every week, and one of the people who let me interview them wanted to read that one. So I put it on here.

I thought it was pretty good, but I'm glad none of you guys said anything about it.

Because I think that all of the articles I've turned in were pretty good.

But them sometimes I get them back and I want to curl up under a little blanket and stay there for the rest of forever.

And the one that I liked the least was the one that got the best grade. What the hell.

They're not bad grades... I've never gotten lower than a B+, but I mean come on, you're talking to a girl who's disappointed by a 3.98 GPA.

I know that writing is all about editing, and feedback is great, and the only way to learn to be a better writer is to critique and correct yourself constantly.

And if a professor corrects things but still writes "nice job" at the top of your paper, it means you didn't fail.

And as long as your writing doesn't sound like a four year-old wrote it and then sent it through a wood chopper, you're doing just fine.

But I am now officially depressed over a B+, because yes, that is how pathetic I am.

Somebody bring me a blanket and some hot chocolate. Please.

Thinking about it, no wonder so many authors become alcoholics or are chronically depressed or stick their heads in the oven. In writing, you either think that you're brilliant or a fucking idiot. There is no in between.

And it's possible to think both about the same piece of writing. Best case scenario, you write something thinking it's abominable and it receives surprisingly good feedback, at which point you re-read it and realize it's quite good.

More common case?

You write something you think is awesome, and it comes back to you with so much red pen that the paper is basically bleeding out any semblance of life it once held, and you have to try and edit this limp piece of nothing into something you're proud of again which, let me tell you, will never happen. It's impossible. 

You hate it now, and you will hate it forever, and you are doomed to hate hate hate because you now think that this is an idiotic piece of writing done by an idiotic writer and that idiotic writer is you. Congratulations.

So to get to the point of this incredibly self-deprecating post, thank you all for just reading my writing and not saying anything about it, because sometimes I just need to stay in my happy little bubble of thinking that I'm talented and if you fucking burst it I will kill you.

...did I mention I'm a little depressed?

Anyone who wants to pat me on the head and tell me I'm a pretty little princess is welcome. I'll be under my blanket.

Boston: One Giant Unknown

               The 19 year-old college student who seemed like a gentleman clearly was not, a fact that became terrifyingly apparent after he and his 26 year-old brother set off two bombs at the finish line of the Boston Marathon last Monday, killing at least 3 and wounding over 150 others. The men acted alone, attacking civilians at a non-partisan event, and leaving many to ask the simple but as yet unanswerable question: Why?

                From two men who lived in the United States for the past five years and raised no red flags during their time, the city of Boston has suffered a tremendous amount of terror this week. And the fear didn’t stay confined within the city’s walls, either; people all across the country with ties to Boston spent the week anxiously waiting to hear that their friends and loved ones were finally safe. “The one thing I wanted all week was just to be home, to be with my parents and to be able to see my friends if I wanted to,” said PJ Fallon, a student at the University of Denver who spent most of his childhood in Boston, and still has many friends that live and attend school in the area. “[I wanted to] not have to watch from 2,000 miles away, watching them going through the most traumatic experience probably of their life right now,” he said.

                When the bombs went off on Monday, the general reaction was one of shock and an immediate need to reconnect with friends and loved ones in or around the race. Spectators and runners scrambled to find each other in the confusion, and loved ones from outside the city were frantically trying to get in touch with those inside of it. “I basically contacted everyone I knew in Boston just being like ‘Are you alive? Really, are you alive, are you safe, what’s going on?’” said Fallon. He was lucky enough to be able to answer ‘yes’ to all of those questions for his friends, but many were not so fortunate. “All I can say is that I love you, and that I’m sorry that everything is going on,” he told a friend in the area who was having difficulty locating the people he knew at the race.

Another Boston native living outside of the city, Melissa Wesenberg also felt the terrors of Monday from her home in North Carolina. “Monday was a very scary day,” Wesenberg said. “I had a lot of friends and family that were running in the marathon. I had one friend whose family was waiting at the finish line for him. Ten minutes prior to the bombs going off, his youngest son had to go to the bathroom. His mom was very mad at him, but now looking back his son might have saved all their lives by having to go to the bathroom.”

                As the events picked back up again with gun exchanges between the suspects and police on both the MIT campus and in Watertown Thursday night, Boston residents reached out for one another once more. Fallon recalled being out with friends when the dramatic events began, and “[going] from total happiness to scared, again, scared out of my mind” in an instant as he heard from friends that were on lockdown five minutes away from the shooting area.

                One thing can be said for Boston residents, though: no matter how little they knew or how scared they were, they never failed to pull together. “I have always been proud of being from Boston, and this past week just made that feeling stronger,” Wesenberg said. “Watching the way the people of Boston responded to this was amazing.” A notoriously strong city, Boston showed the world this week what love in the face of a crisis truly is. “I’m not a religious man,” said Fallon. “But I prayed more this week than I think I have in a year.”

                Memorials for the victims have been held all week, with mourners placing flowers and tokens at the site and churches in the area holding special services. The London Marathon held on Sunday hosted a record number of spectators, many with signs and banners showing their support for the victims Boston. A heartwarming national anthem was sung by players and fans at a Bruins hockey game, and fans of Boston’s opposing teams have brought signs showing their support for their rival city. And Boston residents themselves have shown that despite this attack, they will remain their new slogan – Boston Strong. “I have fond memories of going to the marathon with my family,” Wesenberg said. “I have no doubt that Boston will recover from this and come back stronger.”

Writing Makes Me Pretentious

The other day I read a paper about an interesting topic: Can creative writing really be taught?

I read it for my creative writing class, so of course the answer was yes, yes it can.

And I agree, in part.

But when it comes to poetry... I beg to differ.

It can be logistically taught. You can be taught to read it, and to critique it, and if you're like some of the people in my class you can simply be taught to understand it (seriously, my professor fields some of the dumbest questions in that class. Please read the poem at a higher than elementary school level).

I have found, though, that there are very few people who I actually am okay with them teaching me how to write poetry.

And as of yet, I've only found one person who I will trust to edit my poetry.

My current professor is not that one person.

One of our assignments last week was to write a poem in the shape of a poem that we had read, and (not to brag or anything) mine was pretty great. I prefer writing poetry that hasn't been assigned to me so that the idea is all my own, but I still was pleased with the result.

And while she liked it as well, her comments were some of the stupidest things I've ever read.

Yes, I am aware that poets choose each word specifically. Which is why if you switch a couple of my words around, you don't make it better, you actually make it worse, because I picked those words, and they mean something, and you just totally fucked that meaning up. Congratulations.

Anyway, to avoid sounding like too much of an asshole (oops, too late) I will simply stop here and say that I wrote another poem for her class and since I'm not really planning on making any edits due to her comments anyway, I may as well share it here because I like to pretend that there are people out there who actually like reading my poetry (lol, good one Emma).

Oh, and I haven't thought of a title for it. So, um, if you think of one... you should probably just keep it to yourself.

Jokes you can tell me.

Hell, I might even use it.

If I like you.

And it's not dumb.

Okay seriously though here's my poem.

A soft light paled

by its own shadow

lying across an unknown eye

(as if whispering

a secret

straight into her soul)

While the flickering flame

yellow, then orange,

then golden again,

dances a pattern into her

hair, infinite and fictional,

(a message struck mute

by the passing of time)

as the whispers and words

get lost in the strands

and shuffle toward the split,

fraying ends

until they slip into the shadow

and become infinite once

again.

Poem (For You)

Flames on a candle

speak without words

their reflections dancing

in my irises

Unsatisfied by sounds

By vowels and

consonants and

feelings

So instead

I write you a poem

with a candle stuck in the paper

burning the same flame

wide irises hoping

that you're drawn to the

luminous

light inside the fire

Because don't you know

that watching souls

through holes in their boxes

never got anybody

as far as

reaching out

and taking off

the lid.