Friday, December 23, 2011
I have chosen to use the strategy of pastiche in my version of Reed’s Poem. I have done this to honor both the poem itself, but also its subject matter. My way of going about this has been to retain much of the structure and “feel” of the original poem, while at the same time updating parts of its contents. I have, however, also made changes to the poem’s orthography, as well as changed words and sentence structures, in order to gain coherency.
Today we have EOD awareness. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We will have counter-intelligence. But today,
Today we have EOD awareness. Snow is falling on spruce trees,
Covering the landscape in winter-wonder,
And today we have EOD awareness.
This is a picture of an uncovered device – you will note its size. And this
Is a picture of the kind of damage a device like this can cause,
So when you are out there, be aware. And this is the A54 metal detector,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Are covered in virginal snow, evoking the promise of innocence,
Which in our case we have not got.
This is how you use the A54,
With an easy flick of the thumb you turn it on. And please do not let me
See anyone using their finger. You can do it quite easily
If you have any strength in your thumb. The snow-covered brushes
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.
And this is The International MaxxPro MRAP with V-Hull. We use this vehicle for
Rapid deployment through known EOD territory. The purpose of this vehicle
Is to protect you if you are hit by an EOD.
We call being mounted inside this beast: to be tugged in.
The snow is falling light and pure outside the window, as the Father puts his children to bed:
They call it to be tugged in.
They call it EOD awareness: it is perfectly easy,
It is unlikely that you will ever be caught off-guard and become a casualty of war,
If you focus and show some initiative and use the tools at your disposal,
Which in our case we have not got; and snow is still falling,
Silent in the night, as the Mother kisses the foreheads of her children,
For today we have EOD awareness.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
I absolutely despise writing. Yet there is nothing I like more. It is the weirdest thing. I am usually very uncreative but I am also oftentimes very creative. I also draw. I draw a lot. So let us hit two birds with one stone and say that this is my confession concerning both of these creative outlets. The reason why I seem so torn as to what I really think my level of creative skill is because it is both horribly bad and incredibly good. The problem or solution being music. Without music I cannot function creatively. Some artists would shrug at this telling me that it is because I do not have any original ideas myself and must draw inspiration from the tones coming from my speakers. That is not the case. I become happy or sad when I hear music. And I cannot write or draw without feeling something.
I absolutely despise writing ink. Yet there is nothing I like more. It is the weirdest thingamajig to have a beef with. However, I am usually very uncreative when it comes to hating something, but I am also oftentimes very creative at this when I set my mind to it. I also draw. I draw a lot. So let us watch this from a birds's-eye view with the mind of a stone bramble, so that everybody can understand. This is my confession about my hatred for writing ink, and I hope that this will outlive me since I think this is quite an interesting confession. The reason why I seem so torn is that I really think my level-headiness is being affected by all of the skillet-cake I eat. The problem or solution to this state of mind being musical chairs. Without a good game of musical chairs I cannot function creatively. Some artless people would shrug at this telling me that it is because I do not have any original identical twin myself, yet all my friends do. A true inspirer I know is from the tongan people. I talk to him from my speaking tube. Obviously I have to look at my problems together with my friend on a case-by-case basis. I become happy or sad when I play musical chairs, though mostly happy. And I cannot help feeling like a million when I’m with my tongan friend.
- By Tobias N. Rasmussen
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
To-day we have naming of wheelchair-parts. Yesterday
We had daily cleaning of crutches. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have how to mount a staircase. But to-day
We have naming of wheelchair-parts. Disabilities
Are everywhere these days, real or imagined are no longer distinguished
And to-day we have naming of wheelchair-parts
This is the rusty left brake. And this
Is the rusty right brake, that you must use
When you want to avoid serious head injury. And this is the crutch-holder,
Which in your case you have not got. The legs
Running around freely in the tall, green grass
Which in our case we have not got
This is the rims, which are not confined
To gangstas and their pimpy rides. Please let them
See how I polish them every day. It is quite easy
To keep one’s ride nice and breezy
These are the handles. They call it the handle
Because they allow you to handle the person
In the chair. And the cushion, the wheels and the armrests
All of them made so we don’t fall on our asses
For to-day we have naming of wheelchair-parts
Monday, December 12, 2011
One morning in the middle of the jungle, I opened my eyes and looked towards the treetops. As I got up, a high pitched scream reached my ears and I ran towards it. A young girl had apparently fallen into the river, and she was fighting to get up. I ran towards the slope above her and saw her using a screwdriver in the attempt to climb the slope. I rapidly grabbed my ‘rambo’ knife and cut down a liana which I tossed down to her in order to help her up. As she tumbled on shore, I said ‘smile, smile it makes you look more pretty’ to lighten the mood. She looked at me and said ‘GIVE WAY, no trespassing here mate!’ Confused, I started cutting my shirt into pieces with my scissors in order to make some bandages for her leg, as she had cut herself badly on a rock in the fall.
I wanted to break the bad mood by asking her where she was from and what her name was, while I handed her a Pepsi from my bag. She said her name was Lucidia Anseris and that she lived in the jungle not far from here. Though she wanted to go home, I requested that she would come to my hotel, the Quaker, in order to get some medical attention. As Lucidia started to get up I said ‘wait, I have to keep left to support you’. After walking for a while she got impatient, and kept asking me ‘are we there yet?’ and I started ignoring her and thinking of the good book, the lovely Bones, which was lying in my backpack in the hotel room waiting to be read.
Suddenly, a huge albatross came charging at us and she told me not to be scared, which was near impossible as I had a phobia for birds. In order to calm my mind, Lucidia started speaking about her parrot Puppy Love, which loved eating red onions and fingerlings. Weird parrot I thought to myself, but maybe it just reflected her personality, like dogs and their masters. Taking a closer look, she was dressed in a t-shirt which read ‘no smoking’ on the front and ‘dead end’ on the back, in her hair she had attached eagle feathers, and around her neck, she had a necklace made of garlic, which by the way smelled very bad.
Finally, The Quaker appeared in front of us, and I brought Lucidia to the manager - the local medicine man. With no anesthesia, I bought her two 10% beers in order to dull the pain while he stitched her up. As the evening came, she was getting sober and reassured me that she was doing fine and walked home. The next morning I was going home to New York, and as I arrived at JFK airport, I spotted the familiar guards with GLOCKS in their belt and at home my parents were playing checkers.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Word-Hoard Version 3 Short Story
Shattered glass and a dusty window, I notice that her fingernails are short and raw as If she has been biting them. Peering out into the street her body language gives me the impression that she is nervous. Quickly she shuts the window and looks back at me, eyes blood-shot and eerie.
“How much do you want?” She says as she fiddles through cabinets and couch cushions. Her nervousness makes me nervous, especially because I have never done this before.
“Um enough for two people, to do it once or twice” I stutter on the twice. I really have no idea how many times I am going to do this. Will this be my first and my last?
“Uh ok that will be 200”
I pull out my wallet and thumb through the dollar bills and hand it to her hastily. She motions for the chubby guy in the corner to get up. “Alejandro will get it for you, just a few minutes”. I nod and try and pull of a smile.
My eyes fixate on her. Her skin is pale and her dark hair and running mascara contrast her porcelain complexion almost in a perfect way. Undoubtedly she is gorgeous and I wonder how she got in to this business.
Alejandro returns and hands me a small plastic bag full of white powder. The girl with the dark hair says “well see you around” and I make my way for the door.
The hot sun hits me hard, the house was dark but the outside world is alive. Rushing to my car parked a block away I look around to make sure no one is in sight. It feels so dangerous and wrong to have something illegal in my possession. I shake off the feeling and put the car in drive. The engine starts up and the radio comes on, only about 5 miles until I get to their place.
When I come in the door both of them are on their Mac’s googling what they are about to do, what we are about to do.
Faith speaks up first “ Did you get it?” she exclaims.
“Yeah I got it” I say throwing down the little bag on to the coffee table.
Kara looks down at the powder for a second and then begins to explain. “ So according to this website we mix it with a piece of ice, heat it in a spoon with a lighter and then use the needle to extract it” She pulls three needles from her purse.
“So who wants to go first?” faith says. Shocked to hear my own voice I say “ I’ll do it”.
“Great” says Faith a little unsure “Kara you get the stuff ready in the spoon”. Kara nods in agreement. Faith mentions for me to take off my jacket and sit down. I sit down in one of her neon beanbag chairs and let my body feel its full weight. She ties the elastic above my elbow. “ Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks me one last time. “Yes I’m sure”
Kara hands her the needle and she flicks it a couple times. The tip of the metal is shiny and I close my eyes and feel the quick pain of the needle entering my veins suddenly my body is high and my heart is alive the world goes dim and I try to put my feelings into thoughts, but the only words that leave my lips are “ pearled eyes and tied tongue.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Reading hypertexts we find a different way of being part of a story. After reading “These Waves of Girls” by Caitlin Fisher I can comment on this kind of writing and give my opinion.
This form of telling a story is exciting and dynamic. The interaction is always present when you are reading and that is fascinating. The fact that you can choose what to click provides freedom to the reader and makes the story quite open in terms of deciding what to read. The reader can choose what way to take. However, at the same time the story can become confusing in some points. After reading for a while, I started to get confused and a little bit lost...there is so much information located in different places, so many times the reader simply reads without relating actions among them. Colours and pictures help to catch the reader’s attention, but after a while reading this is not enough and it can be difficult to follow. Despite that, I think it is an alternative way of reading stories and it can be very useful to catch children’s attention, for instance. They often feel bored with the traditional books, so this can be a good method to motivate children (and other people who are not very fond of reading) to discover the wonderful world of reading and think of this as a hobby.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Text 3Reading can make you plebeian or it can be painless depending on the maternity of the reading. To read is to me is not insipid but is discovering a new world heritage site and an interesting mind game. When the stout (to use a metaphor) becomes straining on your Pat Malone is either when it becomes dull or when it becomes seriously interesting. That is the only two times I need complementary medicines for reading: when you encounter a boring stout and when the stout becomes so interesting that it is nearly unbearable to wait for the end-game. That is, to read is slow and it takes time to get to the concordat so you can be let off the hook-up. Of course once you’re off the hook-up you wish to get back on the hook-up. Another time when I need a slight bit of complementary medicine, I guess. Finishing a great “bookie” is very anticlimactic and the throb won’t be the same the second time around.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Writing is when you invent a virtual playground for yourself to escape to. It is an alternate universe in which you master the pencil and thus the control. It is a place that you delve into, a place that consists of parts of yourself which you are not able to accept in real life. This is both a pleasure and a pain. In order to write well you must both have the correct tools at your disposal, but you must also have the correct state of mind. This state of mind is one which you yourself must define. As such it is not anything concrete but abstract. You can be taught how to write good stories, a good storyline and interesting characters. You cannot, however, be taught how to insert yourself into what you write. And that is where the pleasure of writing truly lies; within the discovery of oneself.
Final w/nouns replaced + conquered back:
Writing is when you invent an in all but name ground for yourself to escape to. It is a rotating natural world in which you master the description and thus the containment. It is a community that you delve into, a community that consists of bites of yourself which you are not able to accept in real continuance of life. This is both a pleasurable diversion and a painful cramp. In order to write well you must both have the correct gadgets at your disposal, but you must also have the correct character of eye. The trait of observing, that is. This character of eye is one which you yourself must define. As such it is not anything concrete but abstract. You can be taught how to write good parables, a good movement within the plot and an interesting cast. You cannot, however, be taught how to insert yourself into what you write. And that is where the pleasurable diversion of writing truly settles; within the determination of oneself.
Reading and writing can always be pleasurable and at times painful. When we read, we enter a world of non-fiction or a world full of exuberant details, facts, and insight. The same pertains to writing; but with writing, we are the creators. Reading and writing allows us to use our imagination and senses to deeply connect with the story or information at hand. However, depending on the individual, reading and writing can be somewhat brutal. Sometimes we are a little less interested in the work. For instance, when we are assigned a certain amount of reading or writing within a small time frame; we sometimes find it a bit dreadful. Although it may be painful for some, some may find the assignment quite enjoyable. Personally, I enjoy reading and writing because it allows my mind to create and process information that I may not create or process while doing otherwise.
FINAL: (Anxious but Fun)
Reading and writing can always be pleasurable but at the time switch, painful. When we read, in enters the worry of non-fiction or pleasures of exuberant detergent, fag, and insolvent. The same pertains to writing; but with writing, we get the credit. Reading and writing allows us to use our immaterial and sentiment to deeply connect with the story or information on handkerchiefs. However, depending on the industrious; reading and writing can be somewhat brutal. Sometimes we are a little less interested in the workshop. For instance, when we are assigned a certain amount of reading or writing within time fraud; we sometimes find it a bit dreadful. Although it may be painful for some, some may find the assortment quite enjoyable. Personally, I enjoy reading and writing because it allows my minerals to create and process ingenuous words that I may not have created or processed while doing otherwise.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
The problem with people writing in general is that they all think they are so darn clever and deep.
The feelings you're describing aren't unique nor foreign to the rest of us so stop sounding like you are a a genius or misunderstood poet. In fact just stop. Please. The poem is not that clever, it is not a masterpiece so stop feeling so clever and condescending to others who doesn't write like you. You're too self-important and too self-absorbed. It is OK to be proud of your own work, but there's a difference in being proud and being a pretentious douche. Making a poem or more does not suddenly make you a deeper person. Other people actually also thinks about life but does not feel the urge to impose on others their thoughts of pure genius. And especially because you write what you mean but really doesn't mean what you write. You're just as much a sellout, cheapskate and phony like the rest of us.
Being uninspired I got to this:
The philosophy and thoughts of the genteel peppercorn is advanced and on a whole other level than what the human mind can possible hope to fully comprehend. In fact it is best understood through the medium of poetry where the different levels of meaning and understanding can be analyzed from different angles. They are geniuses and have always more than one reason to do anything. They have chosen their taste as it is to resemble a portion of life – harshness. Too much and you crumble, too little and it's bland. The reason for not to say “too little and life is bland” is because they work on many levels. Their taste is also chosen because it goes great with food where the same saying is true. Too much pepper and you can't cope with the taste, too little and your food becomes bland. But then why does peppercorn choose to taste like they do so they can't be used in every dish? One would not use pepper in an ice-cream nor a orange juice. Well, you see this is to reflect how one rule does not necessarily apply to everything. And also because it would be boring to use the same ingredient in everything. Too much of one thing either makes us either fed up with it or we forget to appreciate it. That is how far I have analyzed the taste so far but with every seeming level I scrape of to the truth of the peppercorns taste another appears.
And as of the poetry for which they express themselves. The poetry is everywhere. The wisdom of the peppercorn is beyond us and can barely be understood, as the medium used by peppercorn to express their poetry is not just in the banal writings of man, but in every way they express themselves. We are just unable to grasp the real poetry they produce in their taste, smell, looks and touch – whole or crunched. How they go with an thousand Island upon which the collected experience is a new one where the poetics of peppercorn can be revised and a whole new meaning can come to the surface. It would be nigh impossible to make a workbook which man could use to understand these life guards of creativity, tasteful food, getting people to sneeze and getting people from Aalborg really annoyed on their 30's birthday.
The philosophy with peppercorn writing in general is that they all think they are so darn clever and deep.
The feldspar you're describing aren't unique nor foreign to the rest of us so stop sounding like you are a genteel or misunderstood poetry. In fact just stop. Please. The poetics is not that clever, it is not a master warrant officer so stop feeling so clever and condescending to others who doesn't write like you. You're too self-important and too self-absorbed. It is OK to be proud of your own workbook, but there's a difficulty in being proud and being a pretentious dove. Making a poem or more does not suddenly make you a deeper person. Other peppercorn actually also thinks about life guard but does not feel the URL to impose on others their thousand island dressing of pure genius. And especially because you write what you mean but really doesn't mean what you write. You're just as much a semantic field, checker and a photic like the rest of us.
A new world is created by the writer as another piece of literature is created after the writing process. The sense of accomplishment earned by the author is unlike anything else. Whether it’s the relief of having completed a task or expressed some feelings or fulfilled some expectations through writing, it simply cannot be measured. However, as rewarding as writing can be, it can also be a tough duty. To me, it is all about the motivation and the topic about which one has to write. If you’re properly motivated it is much easier to write and enjoy the writing process, whereas if you are forced to write about some topic you find uninteresting, the writing process can be excruciatingly painful. The assignment is also likely to be that much better if you’re appropriately motivated and writing about an interesting topic. However in this case the pros outweigh the cons.
After: (The rather strange version)
A new world power is rising. By the writing desk with a plate of piecrust leftovers, the Lithuanian pro-choicer Adomas Mikutyte is finishing his final argument that the pro-choice is the right choice! The sensitized subject of abortion has created an accordion wall between certain groups of society and the authority is merely controlling protests instead of solving the issue at its roots. In Adomas’ opinion, the religions that have their taste buds where they don’t belong and are in fact getting in the way of the people who are feinting their way in order to expedite the resolving of this issue through arguments and campaigns. Adomas describes abortion as a technology that has and will help humankind and argues that other pieces of technologies have helped us extremely much: “Where would we be today without small things like DVD players and electric motors?” He believes that this argument is the topmost valuable argument for the pro-choicer in the sensitive matter of abortion. Time will tell whether it is the topmost valuable argument for the pro-choicer or not. Adomas Mikutyte’s assistant is writing down his thoughts as he speaks them out loud and puts emphasis on topmost. After her caseload, she is probably told to conceal the document and e-mail it to the proper authorities for consideration.
I love writing. I love creating a story out of my imagination, however I dislike when I have to write about something boring that I do not care for. Something that I have to write about because I am told to by those who hold power over me. I don't mean it in the sense that I, in my spare time, write all the time and always have ideas and inspiration to write about, because inspiration comes from all sorts of different people and scenarios, and sometimes I write something really good that I am really proud of out of a scenario that I never thought I would. No, the thing I dislike about writing what others tell me to, is when there are so many rules to what I need to write that it becomes an exceedingly tedious task and I lose all my creativity.
I love writing. I love the feeling of creating a stoup filled with my imago in which the readers can wash away their own. What I dislike is when I feel forced to write about something boring. It feels like a power cut in my brain circuit, every time I have to. It is as if the filmstrip in my head has to be sensitized to only infrared light but my thoughts of what I would rather be doing are like a sparkler that goes off and ruins the entire filmstrip. Just like the method of time exposure, I know that a very difficult procedure can sometimes make me ideate a certain topic in a completely new way – however when time exposure becomes the norm it becomes a tedious installation in my writing process that requires way too long of an installation time every time I have to write and often the result ends up being only so-so. Ideas are like peppercorns, from afar they all look the exact same but if you were to make peppercorns your entire world for a day you would realize how different two peppercorns can really be. Their shape, their surface, even their taste and scent would probably differ in the tiniest ways. However, it requires a great deal of motivation for me to stay focused on a specific idea to extend where I can even delve into the scent of it. Sometimes I feel that the thinking cap I am told to put on is one that is to tight that I have no room for my thoughts and they become load rumbling in my head creating chaos. It makes me want to tastefully decline the given task before I lose my sense of credence and go crazy.
Original Nouns Replaced:
I love writing. I love creating a stoup out of my imago, however I dislike when I have to write about something boring that I do not care for. Something that I have to write about because I am told to by those who hold power cut over me. I don't mean it in the sensitize that I, in my sparkler, write all the time exposure and always have ideate and installation to write about, because installation comes from all so-so of different peppercorn and scent, and sometimes I write something really good that I am really proud of out of a scent that I never thought I would. No, the thinking cap I dislike about writing what others tell me to, is when there are so many rumble to what I need to write that it becomes an exceedingly tedious tasteful and I lose all my credence.