Have you ever heard of those sensory deprivation tanks where you sit in water in the pitch black with absolute silence around you? At first I thought that would be kind of a cool experience, but now I'm not so sure. I think my imagination is not cut out for something like that. It would be kicked into overdrive. After two minutes I would convince myself that I'm going to be stuck in there forever, that I am being punished for something, that the people in control of the tank are at any moment going to release a shark or a piranha or killer squid into the water to see how I react.
What brought about these thoughts was the electricity going out on our block tonight. Being in a new apartment, my roommate and I are not entirely sure of where everything is. We just kind of sat there in the blackness for a minute before launching into action. Usually in the past when this happened it was because we overloaded the circuit or blew a fuse. In this place, I don't even know whether it uses circuit breakers or fuses. All I knew was that I was going to have to step over a lot of crap between where I was in the living room and where my flashlight was next to my bed. And I cannot even begin to tell you where I packed the candles. Anyway, my imagination kicked into gear as I was sitting there- it was really dark! When my roommate ventured into the kitchen to find her flashlight, I sat there in the dead silence and imagined this was all the effort of a serial killer targeting me specifically. Once I brushed off the serial killer scenario, I focused on the noiselessness and that freaked me out even more. That's because it amplifies smaller sounds like rodents skittering.
Look, I know I sound like a crazy person with a bunch of neuroses. Maybe I am, but that rodent thing is legit. One time we had a rat loose in our apartment, and when we thought we had it quarantined, we all went to bed. Guess whose room it ended it up in. I woke up to the scratching sound of rat claws on the wood floor. When I turned on the light, it ran across my wall. I didn't know rats could do that! And that is why I sleep with earplugs.
Beach Walk
I found a baby shark on the beach.
Seagulls had eaten his eyes. His throat was bleeding.
Lying on shell and sand, he looked smaller than he was.
The ocean had scraped his insides clean.
When I poked his stomach, darkness rose up in him,
like black water. Later, I saw a boy,
aroused and elated, beckoning from a dune.
Like me, he was alone. Something tumbled between us—
not quite emotion. I could see the pink
interior flesh of his eyes. "I got lost. Where am I?"
he asked, like a debt owed to death.
I was pressing my face to its spear-hafts.
We fall, we fell, we are falling. Nothing mitigates it.
The dark embryo bares its teeth and we move on.
-Henri Cole
Showing posts with label confessions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label confessions. Show all posts
Monday, January 17, 2011
Getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren't we?
I was watching the Golden Globes tonight, and as a result I feel compelled to admit something. I think most people who have jobs in the arts imagine themselves up on the stage of some awards show, accepting the highest honor for their work in front of all their peers. I, on the other hand, can think of nothing more tortuous aside from being stuck on a bridge in a car full of spiders over a bay on a gusty day. I mean, before we even get to the horror of public speaking, let's consider the long march from your seat to the stage. At least at the Globes everyone is too busy toasting drinks at their tables to be paying too much attention to the actual show. Most other shows everyone is so bored that they just stare at you as you pass by and psychically bombard you with "keep it short" vibes.
I guess I should put a disclaimer here that I've never been to an awards show, I'm only writing what I know from television, and it's probably a poor representation at that. That still doesn't change the fact that if I was ever nominated for an award, I would quickly schedule something out of the country and hope that someone famously hilarious accepts on my behalf.
I know you're thinking, careful, your misanthropy is starting to show. I wasn't always like this. In my bolder days of youthful vanity (read: middle school), I would pretend to be sitting across from Oprah talking about my most recent bestseller. Award shows weren't really my thing, but network television's highly rated daytime shows apparently were. In my angrier, angsty-er days (read: college), I pictured a scenario in which I would accept an award out of spite for all the haters and nay-sayers. That speech would go something like, "This is no thanks to YOU, blankety-blank, who refused to write me a recommendation to get into such-and-such program. Despite you, so-and-so, who rolled your eyes when I said I wanted to be a writer, I'm accepting this award. Suck it."
So that's over, thank goodness. Now I'm sorry to tell you, friends and family members, I will not ever be a good bet for an awards show ticket, but in return I invite you to join me on a secluded beach somewhere- many time zones away from the video feeds (and unfortunately, the gift bags).
The Pillar of Fame
-Robert Herrick
I guess I should put a disclaimer here that I've never been to an awards show, I'm only writing what I know from television, and it's probably a poor representation at that. That still doesn't change the fact that if I was ever nominated for an award, I would quickly schedule something out of the country and hope that someone famously hilarious accepts on my behalf.
I know you're thinking, careful, your misanthropy is starting to show. I wasn't always like this. In my bolder days of youthful vanity (read: middle school), I would pretend to be sitting across from Oprah talking about my most recent bestseller. Award shows weren't really my thing, but network television's highly rated daytime shows apparently were. In my angrier, angsty-er days (read: college), I pictured a scenario in which I would accept an award out of spite for all the haters and nay-sayers. That speech would go something like, "This is no thanks to YOU, blankety-blank, who refused to write me a recommendation to get into such-and-such program. Despite you, so-and-so, who rolled your eyes when I said I wanted to be a writer, I'm accepting this award. Suck it."
So that's over, thank goodness. Now I'm sorry to tell you, friends and family members, I will not ever be a good bet for an awards show ticket, but in return I invite you to join me on a secluded beach somewhere- many time zones away from the video feeds (and unfortunately, the gift bags).
The Pillar of Fame
-Robert Herrick
Fame’s pillar here at last we set,
Out-during marble, brass or jet;
Charmed and enchanted so
As to withstand the blow
O f o v e r t h r o w ;
Nor shall the seas,
Or o u t r a g e s
Of storms, o’erbear
What we uprear;
Tho’ kingdoms fall,
This pillar never shall
Decline or waste at all;
But stand for ever by his own
Firm and well-fixed foundation.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Mi amore
I have an obsession with pasta. It's not at all something I've recently discovered. I'm not having a whiny, middle-aged woman-who-takes-a-gap-year Italian food renaissance, My passion for pasta has always been and always will be, to the point where I first considered writing a blog about spaghetti long before I even entertained the idea of writing about poetry.
Pasta and I go way back to a time when I was a toddler and it was a pastina. My mother used to coax me with a mixture of pastina and egg when I refused all other food, and to this day it is still my go-to dish when I'm sick. The pasta's and my relationship escalated last year when I was no longer satisfied with simply emptying a box of linguine into boiling water. I wanted to get my hands dirty. So I bought a $40 pasta-maker at Bed, Bath & Beyond, and, armed with a book of recipes from Mom, I hand-cranked my first batch of noodles. Well. What can I say that will convince you to live a life of only homemade spaghetti? That it is like nothing else in the world? That angels and Etta James sang? That it really is the easiest thing to do and cooks up in about 2 minutes? That true pasta in its plainest form actually tastes rich and eggy and not at all like cardboard?
Now that I have found gastronomic bliss with my pasta maker, I am continuing to build our relationship. I have discovered two things in the last month, during which I made a Christmas and a New Year's batch:
1) Using Italian "00" flour really does make a difference and only costs about $3 if you can find it. It is so finely ground, it is like working with talcum powder.
2) Instead of relying on a food processor to mix the dough, make an old-fashioned well out of the flour, put the eggs and olive oil in the middle and mix it up yourself. Ten minutes of kneading dough will certainly help you feel less guilty about that big bowl of fettuccine you're about to eat.
And for those of you who are reading this and thinking, when did I sign up for a cooking blog? I say, come over and I'll show you what all the fuss is about.
Pumpernickel
Monday mornings Grandma rose an hour early to make rye,
onion & challah, but it was pumpernickel she broke her hands for,
pumpernickel that demanded cornmeal, ripe caraway, mashed potatoes
& several Old Testament stories about patience & fortitude & for
which she cursed in five languages if it didn’t pop out fat
as an apple-cheeked peasant bride. But bread, after all,
is only bread & who has time to fuss all day & end up
with a dead heart if it flops? Why bother? I’ll tell you why.
For the moment when the steam curls off the black crust like a strip
of pure sunlight & the hard oily flesh breaks open like a poem
pulling out of its own stubborn complexity a single glistening truth
& who can help but wonder at the mystery of the human heart when you
hold a slice up to the light in all its absurd splendor & I tell you
we must risk everything for the raw recipe of our passion.
-Philip Schultz
Pasta and I go way back to a time when I was a toddler and it was a pastina. My mother used to coax me with a mixture of pastina and egg when I refused all other food, and to this day it is still my go-to dish when I'm sick. The pasta's and my relationship escalated last year when I was no longer satisfied with simply emptying a box of linguine into boiling water. I wanted to get my hands dirty. So I bought a $40 pasta-maker at Bed, Bath & Beyond, and, armed with a book of recipes from Mom, I hand-cranked my first batch of noodles. Well. What can I say that will convince you to live a life of only homemade spaghetti? That it is like nothing else in the world? That angels and Etta James sang? That it really is the easiest thing to do and cooks up in about 2 minutes? That true pasta in its plainest form actually tastes rich and eggy and not at all like cardboard?
Now that I have found gastronomic bliss with my pasta maker, I am continuing to build our relationship. I have discovered two things in the last month, during which I made a Christmas and a New Year's batch:
1) Using Italian "00" flour really does make a difference and only costs about $3 if you can find it. It is so finely ground, it is like working with talcum powder.
2) Instead of relying on a food processor to mix the dough, make an old-fashioned well out of the flour, put the eggs and olive oil in the middle and mix it up yourself. Ten minutes of kneading dough will certainly help you feel less guilty about that big bowl of fettuccine you're about to eat.
And for those of you who are reading this and thinking, when did I sign up for a cooking blog? I say, come over and I'll show you what all the fuss is about.
Pumpernickel
Monday mornings Grandma rose an hour early to make rye,
onion & challah, but it was pumpernickel she broke her hands for,
pumpernickel that demanded cornmeal, ripe caraway, mashed potatoes
& several Old Testament stories about patience & fortitude & for
which she cursed in five languages if it didn’t pop out fat
as an apple-cheeked peasant bride. But bread, after all,
is only bread & who has time to fuss all day & end up
with a dead heart if it flops? Why bother? I’ll tell you why.
For the moment when the steam curls off the black crust like a strip
of pure sunlight & the hard oily flesh breaks open like a poem
pulling out of its own stubborn complexity a single glistening truth
& who can help but wonder at the mystery of the human heart when you
hold a slice up to the light in all its absurd splendor & I tell you
we must risk everything for the raw recipe of our passion.
-Philip Schultz
Monday, December 13, 2010
Glaring is caring?
The other day when I was waiting for the airport shuttle to pick me up, I was getting angry because it was a half an hour late. I called the company twice and was assured the driver was "almost there," "almost there" but cars came and went and my blood pressure continued to rise. When the van finally pulled up I rushed down the driveway and loaded my stuff inside. I was already in a bad mood, exhausted from moving right up until the hour I had to leave, and I really wasn't planning to tip this driver. Then he struck up a conversation. I was surprised that I was the only person in the shuttle. The driver asked if the company had called to tell me that he was running late. I said, no, but I called them. He told me they gave him this assignment at the last minute and he had to hurry down from Burbank. They told him he had to be here by 10:30 and he said, there's no way with traffic, but I'll be there as soon as I can. We proceeded to have a really nice conversation the entire way to the airport. The company let him give all his other passengers to someone else so he could rush me to my plane once he picked me up. I was ashamed by my bad attitude. Here I was ready to unleash my stress and frustrations out on someone who was only doing their best to help me.
Over and over this year, I have been struck by the good nature and simple human kindness displayed by strangers. Another example: On my flight, the overhead bins were completely full by the time my section was boarded. I had a laptop bag and a large purse, but they couldn't both fit under the seat in front of me. I was debating whether I was really going to have to check my laptop when the woman beside me offered to let me put my purse with hers under the seat in front of her. Who does that? Nice people, apparently!
I know I have a terrible tendency to myopically view things when life gets too crazy or times are tough, but meanwhile all around the city doors are being held open and even postal workers have been greeting people with a smile. Then I watched this video a friend posted on facebook, and boy did I feel sheepish. Yes, I'll try to be better in the new year.
The God of Loneliness
It’s a cold Sunday February morning
and I’m one of eight men waiting
for the doors of Toys R Us to open
in a mall on the eastern tip of Long Island.
We’ve come for the Japanese electronic game
that’s so hard to find. Last week, I waited
three hours for a store in Manhattan
to disappoint me. The first today, bundled
in six layers, I stood shivering in the dawn light
reading the new Aeneid translation, which I hid
when the others came, stamping boots
and rubbing gloveless hands, joking about
sacrificing sleep for ungrateful sons. “My boy broke
two front teeth playing hockey,” a man wearing
shorts laughs. “This is his reward.” My sons
will leap into my arms, remember this morning
all their lives. “The game is for my oldest boy,
just back from Iraq,” a man in overalls says
from the back of the line. “He plays these games
in his room all day. I’m not worried, he’ll snap out of it,
he’s earned his rest.” These men fix leaks, lay
foundations for other men’s dreams without complaint.
They’ve been waiting in the cold since Aeneas
founded Rome on rivers of blood. Virgil understood that
death begins and never ends, that it’s the god of loneliness.
Through the window, a clerk shouts, “We’ve only five.”
The others seem not to know what to do with their hands,
tuck them under their arms, or let them hang,
naked and useless. Is it because our hands remember
what they held, the promises they made? I know
exactly when my boys will be old enough for war.
Soon three of us will wait across the street at Target,
because it’s what men do for their sons.
-Philip Schultz
Over and over this year, I have been struck by the good nature and simple human kindness displayed by strangers. Another example: On my flight, the overhead bins were completely full by the time my section was boarded. I had a laptop bag and a large purse, but they couldn't both fit under the seat in front of me. I was debating whether I was really going to have to check my laptop when the woman beside me offered to let me put my purse with hers under the seat in front of her. Who does that? Nice people, apparently!
I know I have a terrible tendency to myopically view things when life gets too crazy or times are tough, but meanwhile all around the city doors are being held open and even postal workers have been greeting people with a smile. Then I watched this video a friend posted on facebook, and boy did I feel sheepish. Yes, I'll try to be better in the new year.
The God of Loneliness
It’s a cold Sunday February morning
and I’m one of eight men waiting
for the doors of Toys R Us to open
in a mall on the eastern tip of Long Island.
We’ve come for the Japanese electronic game
that’s so hard to find. Last week, I waited
three hours for a store in Manhattan
to disappoint me. The first today, bundled
in six layers, I stood shivering in the dawn light
reading the new Aeneid translation, which I hid
when the others came, stamping boots
and rubbing gloveless hands, joking about
sacrificing sleep for ungrateful sons. “My boy broke
two front teeth playing hockey,” a man wearing
shorts laughs. “This is his reward.” My sons
will leap into my arms, remember this morning
all their lives. “The game is for my oldest boy,
just back from Iraq,” a man in overalls says
from the back of the line. “He plays these games
in his room all day. I’m not worried, he’ll snap out of it,
he’s earned his rest.” These men fix leaks, lay
foundations for other men’s dreams without complaint.
They’ve been waiting in the cold since Aeneas
founded Rome on rivers of blood. Virgil understood that
death begins and never ends, that it’s the god of loneliness.
Through the window, a clerk shouts, “We’ve only five.”
The others seem not to know what to do with their hands,
tuck them under their arms, or let them hang,
naked and useless. Is it because our hands remember
what they held, the promises they made? I know
exactly when my boys will be old enough for war.
Soon three of us will wait across the street at Target,
because it’s what men do for their sons.
-Philip Schultz
Friday, December 3, 2010
And the book addiction begat the shopping habit which begat the intervention
I have a serious book problem. Here I am packing, transferring all my junk from one residence to the next, hustling things on Craigslist, celebrating like it's New Year's Eve when the Department of Sanitation agrees to pick up my old box spring mattress, and then what happens? I pause for a minute and suddenly panic that I won't have anything to read on the plane to DC next week. I won't have any books because I packed them all! Horror of horrors, this will not do. I remember that I have a $20 gift card to Barnes & Noble. Packing break!
I know exactly what I want. In the store, I make my way up to the third floor-- fiction/literature. The escalators are kind of weird in this one: when you step off on one level you're supposed to turn and walk behind you to the escalator that continues up to the next level. I always forget and walk across to the other side of the floor to the escalator going back downstairs. On my way, I pass the music section. Then I am hit with a sudden, intense desire to own Keith Richard's memoir. There they are, dozens of them stacked up, 30% off. An employee hands me a copy. Hardcover. Huge. Not intended for travel, but I'm determined to read it.
Now to continue on my original mission to find the third book in the Stieg Larsson triology: The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest. A few weeks ago I had finished the second book, and it kind of left me hanging. I finally locate it and am dismayed to find that it, too, is only in hard cover. Yeesh. These are going to be taking up all the space in my carry-on luggage. The good news? It's also 30% off.
So, let's recap. I-- a person who is trying to get rid of stuff-- now own two new hard back books and have nowhere to put them, not even in my luggage, and certainly not in my home as I have pretty much exhausted all the space on my bookcases both in my room and the living room. . . trip to Ikea, anyone?
Branch Library
-Edward Hirsch
I know exactly what I want. In the store, I make my way up to the third floor-- fiction/literature. The escalators are kind of weird in this one: when you step off on one level you're supposed to turn and walk behind you to the escalator that continues up to the next level. I always forget and walk across to the other side of the floor to the escalator going back downstairs. On my way, I pass the music section. Then I am hit with a sudden, intense desire to own Keith Richard's memoir. There they are, dozens of them stacked up, 30% off. An employee hands me a copy. Hardcover. Huge. Not intended for travel, but I'm determined to read it.
Now to continue on my original mission to find the third book in the Stieg Larsson triology: The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest. A few weeks ago I had finished the second book, and it kind of left me hanging. I finally locate it and am dismayed to find that it, too, is only in hard cover. Yeesh. These are going to be taking up all the space in my carry-on luggage. The good news? It's also 30% off.
So, let's recap. I-- a person who is trying to get rid of stuff-- now own two new hard back books and have nowhere to put them, not even in my luggage, and certainly not in my home as I have pretty much exhausted all the space on my bookcases both in my room and the living room. . . trip to Ikea, anyone?
Branch Library
-Edward Hirsch
I wish I could find that skinny, long-beaked boy
who perched in the branches of the old branch library.
He spent the Sabbath flying between the wobbly stacks
and the flimsy wooden tables on the second floor,
pecking at nuts, nesting in broken spines, scratching
notes under his own corner patch of sky.
I'd give anything to find that birdy boy again
bursting out into the dusky blue afternoon
with his satchel of scrawls and scribbles,
radiating heat, singing with joy.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Harpy! Harpy! burning bright
For some people, the world exists only to complain about it. The woman downstairs is one of those people. In Greek mythological circles she might be termed a harpy. She is constantly trying to snatch everything good and reasonable out of the air.
First she complained she could hear us talking too loudly with the windows open. Valid. We shut the windows. Then we were stomping around too hard on the floor when we walked. She called my roommate Lady Minotaur, spitting the words at us as if they were some great insult. Can you imagine what it would be like if we actually wore our shoes indoors? Then her issue was with the fan my roommate had set up in her bedroom during one hot week of summer. Apparently it was shaking her walls. Our apartment is on the top floor and has so many windows it's like a greenhouse up in here. My roommate tried all sorts of ways to rig the fan so that it was cushioned from the floor. That wasn't enough. The harpy demanded that the landlord install a ceiling fan. He did but also suggested that maybe apartment living isn't for her.
Now it's effing cold and I have a space heater turned on during the hour or so before I go to bed. I close the door and my room becomes a hotbox and then I turn it off until the morning (fear of electrical fire). This teeny tiny heater sits on a portable table on top of a rug. Guess what. It's causing a "humming sound" that's disturbing her highness. The landlord sent me an email today with the subject line "Help." He asked if I would mind putting a pillow underneath the heater or something. Because I like him and don't want to cause him trouble, I said sure. But what I really wanted to say was to tell the wicked witch that I'm only living here for 8 more days, so suck it up. Better yet, tell her to come up and ask me herself.
There is a happy ending to this story. I call it divine justice. The landlord informed me that our apartment has been rented by some very nice people. A family. With two kids. God, I hope those kids wrestle and scream and jump up and down on the floor. What can you say? They're just kids.
A Poison Tree
by William Blake
I was angry with my friend.
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe.
I told it not, my wrath did grow;
And I water'd it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles;
And it grew both day and night
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole.
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
First she complained she could hear us talking too loudly with the windows open. Valid. We shut the windows. Then we were stomping around too hard on the floor when we walked. She called my roommate Lady Minotaur, spitting the words at us as if they were some great insult. Can you imagine what it would be like if we actually wore our shoes indoors? Then her issue was with the fan my roommate had set up in her bedroom during one hot week of summer. Apparently it was shaking her walls. Our apartment is on the top floor and has so many windows it's like a greenhouse up in here. My roommate tried all sorts of ways to rig the fan so that it was cushioned from the floor. That wasn't enough. The harpy demanded that the landlord install a ceiling fan. He did but also suggested that maybe apartment living isn't for her.
Now it's effing cold and I have a space heater turned on during the hour or so before I go to bed. I close the door and my room becomes a hotbox and then I turn it off until the morning (fear of electrical fire). This teeny tiny heater sits on a portable table on top of a rug. Guess what. It's causing a "humming sound" that's disturbing her highness. The landlord sent me an email today with the subject line "Help." He asked if I would mind putting a pillow underneath the heater or something. Because I like him and don't want to cause him trouble, I said sure. But what I really wanted to say was to tell the wicked witch that I'm only living here for 8 more days, so suck it up. Better yet, tell her to come up and ask me herself.
There is a happy ending to this story. I call it divine justice. The landlord informed me that our apartment has been rented by some very nice people. A family. With two kids. God, I hope those kids wrestle and scream and jump up and down on the floor. What can you say? They're just kids.
A Poison Tree
by William Blake
I was angry with my friend.
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe.
I told it not, my wrath did grow;
And I water'd it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles;
And it grew both day and night
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole.
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The perfect murder
I have always been fascinated by murder mysteries, detective stories, law and order. There's a sense of excitement and anticipation in knowing that I'm about to be in for a roller coaster ride of twists and turns but that hopefully the storytelling hands are capable and will lead to a satisfying ending.
Sometimes I like my mysteries to have a supernatural twist because it opens up limitless possibilities in the world of my imagination. In fact, the first story I ever wrote was a supernatural murder mystery called "Queen Elizabeth's Revenge." I must have been in 4th or 5th grade when I wrote it, and all I can remember now is that it involved Queen Elizabeth I and an emerald ring that had special powers and made the finger that was wearing it fall off her dead corpse. I also remember scaring my sister quite heartily with it.
Anyway, I haven't ever been able to get past my fascination with the macabre, and this still plays into my creative process. As I've mentioned here in the last few weeks, I've been trying to piece together a perfect murder that would stump everyone involved. This is for a script I'm working on. At first I thought it would be a piece of cake because of my vast research into the subject (i.e. years of watching Colombo and Hitchcock films and reading Agatha Christie and Ellery Queen mysteries). However, I quickly got myself into trouble by trying to be far too clever for my own good. The catch-22 of good writing is that you want to write yourself into a corner because that way your audience will be on the edge of their seats wondering how you're going to get your characters out of this mess. The problem with that is you also have to figure out a plausible way to escape the corner yourself. While I think I've finally got a handle on the situation as far as my script goes, I thought it might be fun to put some things I've learned into poetical form.
The perfect murder
In cop shows, it's always
the person you least expect,
someone you meet
in the first 10 minutes,
quickly so
that you can forget.
The grieving widow,
the childhood best friend,
the special guest star,
all guilty,
all fueled
by love, greed or revenge.
It's clear they were
too full of passion
they could never get
away with it.
You can't hide
a thing like that.
The prerequisite
of a perfect murder
is
a void of emotion,
a cold calculation.
The perfect murderer craves
no credit for his crime.
He does it to feed a monster.
He doesn't care
for the world outside.
He needs only
the barest of tools:
a bit of rope,
a locked room,
the perfect alibi.
And when he's finished,
it hardly seems like
murder at all.
This model criminal
casts just enough doubt
as to make it seem possible
that something
supernatural,
some higher power,
came to collect
this "victim,"
this person
whose time was up.
And the dectectives
will scratch their beards
or mustaches
and bumble and
wonder if maybe
they shouldn't
be meddling
with such things.
Sometimes I like my mysteries to have a supernatural twist because it opens up limitless possibilities in the world of my imagination. In fact, the first story I ever wrote was a supernatural murder mystery called "Queen Elizabeth's Revenge." I must have been in 4th or 5th grade when I wrote it, and all I can remember now is that it involved Queen Elizabeth I and an emerald ring that had special powers and made the finger that was wearing it fall off her dead corpse. I also remember scaring my sister quite heartily with it.
Anyway, I haven't ever been able to get past my fascination with the macabre, and this still plays into my creative process. As I've mentioned here in the last few weeks, I've been trying to piece together a perfect murder that would stump everyone involved. This is for a script I'm working on. At first I thought it would be a piece of cake because of my vast research into the subject (i.e. years of watching Colombo and Hitchcock films and reading Agatha Christie and Ellery Queen mysteries). However, I quickly got myself into trouble by trying to be far too clever for my own good. The catch-22 of good writing is that you want to write yourself into a corner because that way your audience will be on the edge of their seats wondering how you're going to get your characters out of this mess. The problem with that is you also have to figure out a plausible way to escape the corner yourself. While I think I've finally got a handle on the situation as far as my script goes, I thought it might be fun to put some things I've learned into poetical form.
The perfect murder
In cop shows, it's always
the person you least expect,
someone you meet
in the first 10 minutes,
quickly so
that you can forget.
The grieving widow,
the childhood best friend,
the special guest star,
all guilty,
all fueled
by love, greed or revenge.
It's clear they were
too full of passion
they could never get
away with it.
You can't hide
a thing like that.
The prerequisite
of a perfect murder
is
a void of emotion,
a cold calculation.
The perfect murderer craves
no credit for his crime.
He does it to feed a monster.
He doesn't care
for the world outside.
He needs only
the barest of tools:
a bit of rope,
a locked room,
the perfect alibi.
And when he's finished,
it hardly seems like
murder at all.
This model criminal
casts just enough doubt
as to make it seem possible
that something
supernatural,
some higher power,
came to collect
this "victim,"
this person
whose time was up.
And the dectectives
will scratch their beards
or mustaches
and bumble and
wonder if maybe
they shouldn't
be meddling
with such things.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Basically, I'm a big scaredy cat.
I have many fears, including but not limited to spiders, roaches, tornadoes, traveling in a car on a bridge over water, heights (this is a new one), and velociraptors. But one other very serious fear for me is encountering a blank screen when I sit down to write. It's a classic western stand-off. The blank page says that it is better off without anything on it. It reasons with me: "Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt." Yeah, thanks for that, page.
Some of the ways I've learned to combat this is to jot down some ideas or the first lines of something on a scrap of paper. That way, I have something to immediately type up before the page can get a word in edgewise. I also stumbled onto another process accidentally. I once had to type up a poem for class from an author I admired, and even the physical act of typing those lines that I knew were great and seeing the words appear on the screen as I "wrote" them gave me courage. It's hard to explain, but if I type a few stanzas from Edgar Allen Poe, I get an idea of what it's like to see myself type something good, and then it makes me want to tackle my own writing and be better at it. That's one of the reasons I enjoy writing the entries for this blog.
In keeping with the Halloween theme of the week, I thought a little Poe was in order. Now I'll bet you think I'm going to post "The Raven." That poem's pretty good, but I prefer "Annabel Lee." It was the last poem Poe wrote before he died. Many people assume it's about his wife, Virginia, who had died from tuberculosis a couple years before. Poe said that the death of a beautiful woman was the most poetical theme to write about. This poem gives me the wiggins.
Annabel Lee
Some of the ways I've learned to combat this is to jot down some ideas or the first lines of something on a scrap of paper. That way, I have something to immediately type up before the page can get a word in edgewise. I also stumbled onto another process accidentally. I once had to type up a poem for class from an author I admired, and even the physical act of typing those lines that I knew were great and seeing the words appear on the screen as I "wrote" them gave me courage. It's hard to explain, but if I type a few stanzas from Edgar Allen Poe, I get an idea of what it's like to see myself type something good, and then it makes me want to tackle my own writing and be better at it. That's one of the reasons I enjoy writing the entries for this blog.
In keeping with the Halloween theme of the week, I thought a little Poe was in order. Now I'll bet you think I'm going to post "The Raven." That poem's pretty good, but I prefer "Annabel Lee." It was the last poem Poe wrote before he died. Many people assume it's about his wife, Virginia, who had died from tuberculosis a couple years before. Poe said that the death of a beautiful woman was the most poetical theme to write about. This poem gives me the wiggins.
Annabel Lee
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Is there a twelve-step program for this?
At one point in my life I felt confident enough to make a sweeping generalization about short stories. Basically, I hated them. My argument was, by the time I get invested in one, it's over. There were only ever a few short stories I really liked. A lot of them were Poe's. And ironically for me (because I dislike James Joyce so intensely), certain ones from Dubliners. Maybe if I'm on an airplane for five hours and have only the New Yorker to read, then I might give another short story a chance.
But . . . I'm about to share a secret with you. I think some of my short story loathing was born out of jealousy of short story writers. See, it takes a real talent to be able to create characters the reader cares about, a mood, a theme and a message all in under 10,000 words. I don't think I have that capability. It's why I like TV shows- they go on and on and on and you have seasons to develop your stories and characters (unless you get canceled).
Once I was able to pinpoint my major issues with short stories, I was able to work through them. I mean, I like children's stories. They're easy to swallow. They often don't have many layers. And consider a poem. Is a poem that much different from a short story? Poets are trying to convey something in an even shorter amount of space. My thing with poetry, though, is that much of the time you're really only investing in a page or two. Whatever effort you put into understanding it, it's rare that you feel ripped from the world when you finish reading a poem.
All that aside, I decided to make an effort to put some short story elements into a poem. Maybe if I could marry the two, I could be more accepting. This is my attempt at a poem in three parts, connected by a common theme:
Knowledge Is Power
I.
Mom used to say
she had eyes in the back of her head.
I wonder when I will grow mine.
II.
Would I recognize myself on the street
if I was walking five steps behind,
my back half,
my other half
and I
never properly introduced?
III.
When did we give up our fascination
with the backs of cereal boxes?
Or did cereal boxes
become too unwieldy
because we buy them Costco-size?
But . . . I'm about to share a secret with you. I think some of my short story loathing was born out of jealousy of short story writers. See, it takes a real talent to be able to create characters the reader cares about, a mood, a theme and a message all in under 10,000 words. I don't think I have that capability. It's why I like TV shows- they go on and on and on and you have seasons to develop your stories and characters (unless you get canceled).
Once I was able to pinpoint my major issues with short stories, I was able to work through them. I mean, I like children's stories. They're easy to swallow. They often don't have many layers. And consider a poem. Is a poem that much different from a short story? Poets are trying to convey something in an even shorter amount of space. My thing with poetry, though, is that much of the time you're really only investing in a page or two. Whatever effort you put into understanding it, it's rare that you feel ripped from the world when you finish reading a poem.
All that aside, I decided to make an effort to put some short story elements into a poem. Maybe if I could marry the two, I could be more accepting. This is my attempt at a poem in three parts, connected by a common theme:
Knowledge Is Power
I.
Mom used to say
she had eyes in the back of her head.
I wonder when I will grow mine.
II.
Would I recognize myself on the street
if I was walking five steps behind,
my back half,
my other half
and I
never properly introduced?
III.
When did we give up our fascination
with the backs of cereal boxes?
Or did cereal boxes
become too unwieldy
because we buy them Costco-size?
Monday, October 11, 2010
That's not for you.
I was reading through a recently published collection of Charles Bukowski's poems, though he died in 1994 of leukemia. Many of the poems in this collection had been previously unpublished, but his widow and editor took them and put them together. The same thing happened when Michael Crichton died and his editor found a manuscript he had been working on called Pirate Latitudes. The editor made the decision to publish it, and of course Steven Spielberg is now making it into a movie.
Now, I understand that if someone made a living as a writer, you might assume that he was planning to publish this newly discovered work eventually, but you can't know that for sure unless he told you himself. You might think it's very tragic that the author died before he could see his work appreciated. I, however, find it kind of disconcerting that when I die some unlucky person who has to sift through all my crap might happen upon some horrible first draft of a poem or story I've written and would try to put it out into the world. What if I had hated that draft and decided to scrap the idea all together? After you die, are your ideas just fair game?
If the person is famous, I think we feel it's owed to us, the audience, to read his or her last words. I think we view the song or poem or manuscript as a gift that person was working on for us, and if he died before he could present it to his fans, then we will take it anyway because we're sure that's what he would have wanted. "Oh, Grandma always meant to give you this brooch. She never got around to putting it in her will, but take it. I'm sure she would have wanted you to have it."
On the other hand, consider that some things are too personal and not intended to ever be shared. If someone found a poem I wrote at an emotional low point (and subsequently stuffed into the back of a drawer) and then submitted it to a literary magazine, I would have to haunt them so that they could know how pissed off I am. It's like one time when I was on a picnic with some friends. They had a fancy picnic basket given to them as a wedding gift and it came with silverware and wine glasses and specially decorated paper napkins. As we were passing around the food and utensils, I went to take a napkin and one of my friends took it back. "That's not for you," he said. We looked at him, surprised, and then we all burst out laughing because his wife said he really wanted to save those special napkins for some unknown future occasion.
That personal emotional poem I wrote 15 years ago? That's not for you. But that script I've been hawking the last 6 months? That you can have.
waste
"boring," he said from his deathbed,
"I bored everybody, even
myself.
I wasted it, I was a fake, a word-
blower . . . all too fancy . . . all too
full of tricks."
"oh master," said the young poet,
"that's not true at all, not at
all."
"all too true," said the old man.
"my work was overblown
rubbish."
the young poet did not believe
those words.
he could not, he would not,
for he too was writing
rubbish.
but still he asked the old man,
"but Master, what is to be
done?"
"begin at the beginning."
said the old man.
a few days after that
he died.
he had not wanted to see the
young poet anyhow.
now that didn't matter
either.
-Charles Bukowski
Now, I understand that if someone made a living as a writer, you might assume that he was planning to publish this newly discovered work eventually, but you can't know that for sure unless he told you himself. You might think it's very tragic that the author died before he could see his work appreciated. I, however, find it kind of disconcerting that when I die some unlucky person who has to sift through all my crap might happen upon some horrible first draft of a poem or story I've written and would try to put it out into the world. What if I had hated that draft and decided to scrap the idea all together? After you die, are your ideas just fair game?
If the person is famous, I think we feel it's owed to us, the audience, to read his or her last words. I think we view the song or poem or manuscript as a gift that person was working on for us, and if he died before he could present it to his fans, then we will take it anyway because we're sure that's what he would have wanted. "Oh, Grandma always meant to give you this brooch. She never got around to putting it in her will, but take it. I'm sure she would have wanted you to have it."
On the other hand, consider that some things are too personal and not intended to ever be shared. If someone found a poem I wrote at an emotional low point (and subsequently stuffed into the back of a drawer) and then submitted it to a literary magazine, I would have to haunt them so that they could know how pissed off I am. It's like one time when I was on a picnic with some friends. They had a fancy picnic basket given to them as a wedding gift and it came with silverware and wine glasses and specially decorated paper napkins. As we were passing around the food and utensils, I went to take a napkin and one of my friends took it back. "That's not for you," he said. We looked at him, surprised, and then we all burst out laughing because his wife said he really wanted to save those special napkins for some unknown future occasion.
That personal emotional poem I wrote 15 years ago? That's not for you. But that script I've been hawking the last 6 months? That you can have.
waste
"boring," he said from his deathbed,
"I bored everybody, even
myself.
I wasted it, I was a fake, a word-
blower . . . all too fancy . . . all too
full of tricks."
"oh master," said the young poet,
"that's not true at all, not at
all."
"all too true," said the old man.
"my work was overblown
rubbish."
the young poet did not believe
those words.
he could not, he would not,
for he too was writing
rubbish.
but still he asked the old man,
"but Master, what is to be
done?"
"begin at the beginning."
said the old man.
a few days after that
he died.
he had not wanted to see the
young poet anyhow.
now that didn't matter
either.
-Charles Bukowski
Friday, October 8, 2010
Lack of sleep = nonsensical shoe post
I have this one pair of boots that I love. I bought them on sale last year. They're kind of like Uggs except they are gray and the top part looks like leg warmers. The inside is furry and it feels like wearing slippers when I put them on over my pants.
I don't wear them very often. I guess I feel that it's barely ever cold enough to warrant slipper leg warmers, but it makes me sad to see them sit in the collection of shoes by the door. The other shoes are always coming and going, but my poor little fUggs (fake Uggs) never get invited out. So when these last few rainy days came upon us and it began to get a little bit chilly I said, by George I'll wear them!
I put them on as I went out and about on Wednesday. I enjoyed them so much that I found myself walking extra distances just to prolong the effect. Then I had a brilliant idea. I was scheduled to work on a shoot all day on Thursday up in Thousand Oaks. The weather was supposed to be in the 60s, and I was going to have be on my feet an awful lot. What a perfect situation for my fUggs! I'm not gonna lie, the idea of wearing them was the main reason I was able to get up at 5:00 that morning.
Let me tell you what happened. One time when I was little I read a story that I think was in one of the Ramona Quimby books. In it, Ramona loves her soft bunny rabbit pajamas so much that she doesn't want to take them off. She decides to pretend she's a firefighter and wear her pajamas under her clothes to school. At first she feels lovely and warm but then she overheats and gets sick. That is what happened to me with my fUggs.
These boots, while great for quick runs to the grocery store, would not be recommended by Dr. Scholl for an 11-hour day standing up. Not only did my legs cramp but my back started to ache and my feet got hot. I am Ramona Quimby and I am no fireman. Also, I need to go to bed now to repair the havoc these devil shoes wreaked on my poor old bones. This pretty much sums up how I feel:
Mr. Grumpledump's Song
Everything's wrong,
Days are too long,
Sunshine's too hot,
Wind is too strong.
Clouds are too fluffy,
Grass is too green,
Ground is too dusty,
Sheets are too clean.
Stars are too twinkly,
Moon is too high,
Water's too drippy,
Sand is too dry.
Rocks are too heavy,
Feathers too light,
Kids are too noisy,
Shoes are too tight.
Folks are too happy,
Singin' their songs.
Why can't they see it?
Everything's wrong!
-Shel Silverstein
I don't wear them very often. I guess I feel that it's barely ever cold enough to warrant slipper leg warmers, but it makes me sad to see them sit in the collection of shoes by the door. The other shoes are always coming and going, but my poor little fUggs (fake Uggs) never get invited out. So when these last few rainy days came upon us and it began to get a little bit chilly I said, by George I'll wear them!
I put them on as I went out and about on Wednesday. I enjoyed them so much that I found myself walking extra distances just to prolong the effect. Then I had a brilliant idea. I was scheduled to work on a shoot all day on Thursday up in Thousand Oaks. The weather was supposed to be in the 60s, and I was going to have be on my feet an awful lot. What a perfect situation for my fUggs! I'm not gonna lie, the idea of wearing them was the main reason I was able to get up at 5:00 that morning.
Let me tell you what happened. One time when I was little I read a story that I think was in one of the Ramona Quimby books. In it, Ramona loves her soft bunny rabbit pajamas so much that she doesn't want to take them off. She decides to pretend she's a firefighter and wear her pajamas under her clothes to school. At first she feels lovely and warm but then she overheats and gets sick. That is what happened to me with my fUggs.
These boots, while great for quick runs to the grocery store, would not be recommended by Dr. Scholl for an 11-hour day standing up. Not only did my legs cramp but my back started to ache and my feet got hot. I am Ramona Quimby and I am no fireman. Also, I need to go to bed now to repair the havoc these devil shoes wreaked on my poor old bones. This pretty much sums up how I feel:
Mr. Grumpledump's Song
Everything's wrong,
Days are too long,
Sunshine's too hot,
Wind is too strong.
Clouds are too fluffy,
Grass is too green,
Ground is too dusty,
Sheets are too clean.
Stars are too twinkly,
Moon is too high,
Water's too drippy,
Sand is too dry.
Rocks are too heavy,
Feathers too light,
Kids are too noisy,
Shoes are too tight.
Folks are too happy,
Singin' their songs.
Why can't they see it?
Everything's wrong!
-Shel Silverstein
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
The horror of health
The vegetables in my refrigerator are causing me anxiety. It's not that I don't want to eat them. I do. It's just that there's so damn many of them, they can't last. I'm afraid to open the fridge for fear of witnessing the last throes of a tomato. When it's dinner time I hesitate between the eggplant and the zucchini. Which one faces a greater danger of expiring? I pick up the zucchini. "I'll come back for you, eggplant! Tomorrow! Just hold on!" Then later, guilt: "More. I could have cooked more. Why didn't I make ratatouille? I could have used two for it. And I didn't!" It's a regular Schindler's list up in my kitchen.
Here's how it all started: a couple months ago I joined a CSA. It's great. Everything is fresh and vibrant. The colors are rich and coursing with nutrients. It's all so plentiful:
It's also a lot of veg. I didn't realize it at the time, but even between the three people in our household, it takes some considerable menu planning to use each and every one of those little life-givers. First I took the approach of showing respect to nature by trying to feature each vegetable, but I soon came to grips with the fact that I am not creative enough to feature that many scallions. Then it became a how-many-vegetables-can-I-cram-into-this-stir-fry type of deal. I mean, we're only getting these boxes of veggies every other week so you'd think it wouldn't be so difficult, but the other thing to take into account is the time and effort that goes into cooking each meal. My name is not Ina Garten. I wish it was, I really do. Where's Jeffrey?
So now I'm left with the race to save the escarole from the garbage. I've practically given up meat I'm eating so many fruits and vegetables. This is what I get for pursuing a healthy lifestyle. And yet, every night, triage: The lemons are shriveling! I run for the juicer. The grapes are two degrees left of raisins. Pick out the good ones, refresh in cold water, leave the weak behind. The plums are growing mushrooms! There's nothing more we can do. Body bag (trash).
I'm not ready to give up on the CSA yet or my veggies. The situation is serious. It calls for constant vigilance. And a limerick:
The stress that healthy eating gives
cannot be the right way to live.
The veggies are crying,
the fruit's quickly dying.
How I long for some preservatives!
Here's how it all started: a couple months ago I joined a CSA. It's great. Everything is fresh and vibrant. The colors are rich and coursing with nutrients. It's all so plentiful:
It's also a lot of veg. I didn't realize it at the time, but even between the three people in our household, it takes some considerable menu planning to use each and every one of those little life-givers. First I took the approach of showing respect to nature by trying to feature each vegetable, but I soon came to grips with the fact that I am not creative enough to feature that many scallions. Then it became a how-many-vegetables-can-I-cram-into-this-stir-fry type of deal. I mean, we're only getting these boxes of veggies every other week so you'd think it wouldn't be so difficult, but the other thing to take into account is the time and effort that goes into cooking each meal. My name is not Ina Garten. I wish it was, I really do. Where's Jeffrey?
So now I'm left with the race to save the escarole from the garbage. I've practically given up meat I'm eating so many fruits and vegetables. This is what I get for pursuing a healthy lifestyle. And yet, every night, triage: The lemons are shriveling! I run for the juicer. The grapes are two degrees left of raisins. Pick out the good ones, refresh in cold water, leave the weak behind. The plums are growing mushrooms! There's nothing more we can do. Body bag (trash).
I'm not ready to give up on the CSA yet or my veggies. The situation is serious. It calls for constant vigilance. And a limerick:
The stress that healthy eating gives
cannot be the right way to live.
The veggies are crying,
the fruit's quickly dying.
How I long for some preservatives!
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Sometimes I am stupid.
I apologize for the late post today. Usually I write the posts the day before and I schedule them to publish early the next morning, but sometimes I am stupid and I forget to type AM instead of PM. So then we get an instance like today where I meant to post at 4:53 AM and I just arrived home to find that I set it to post at 4:53 PM.
Okay, go about your business.
Okay, go about your business.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Why I shouldn't have fish as pets.
I have been having some weird dreams lately. Maybe weird isn't even the right word . . . just really real dreams. To the point where I remember reading emails that I can very clearly see in my head but I never received in real life. It's kind of like that scene in Romy and Michele's High School Reunion where Michele takes a nap in the limo and dreams that she knows the formula for Post-its glue. It's disturbing to wake up and realize you don't really know the formula.
I also have two recurring dreams. One is about a tornado and the other is about pet fish. The tornado dream I've come to believe signifies change, but the fish dream is messed up. In the fish dream, I'm usually out with some friends and we go into a pet store. I look at all the animals and then I decide to buy some awesome tropical fish. At that moment I suddenly realize that I have had an aquarium of fish at home all this time and I haven't fed them for THREE YEARS. I rush home, terrified of what I'm going to find-- the horrible gaping carcasses of fish staring at me with betrayal. I get to the room with the aquarium and I'm afraid to turn on the light. I dump a bunch of food into the tank as if that will make up for everything and then this enormous Piranha-type mutated fish leaps out of the murky water and snaps at me. I barely get my arm away in time. Now what does that mean?
In honor of dreams, I wrote about another familiar phenomenon:
Falling in Sleep
It disturbs us.
A nightmare we can't quite recall,
where a hint of evil lingers:
an apple that's too polished,
a clown whose grin is too wide,
an argument too easily won.
It happens when we think it won't.
in the No Man's Land of our minds,
and just as we're settling into our canoes
it's over the ledge,
hearts expanding, filling
each limb with rushing air,
until the bungee cord around our waists
takes back some slack and we bounce,
midair,
blood bubbling in our ears,
legs twitching as we wonder,
why didn't my heart burst?
I also have two recurring dreams. One is about a tornado and the other is about pet fish. The tornado dream I've come to believe signifies change, but the fish dream is messed up. In the fish dream, I'm usually out with some friends and we go into a pet store. I look at all the animals and then I decide to buy some awesome tropical fish. At that moment I suddenly realize that I have had an aquarium of fish at home all this time and I haven't fed them for THREE YEARS. I rush home, terrified of what I'm going to find-- the horrible gaping carcasses of fish staring at me with betrayal. I get to the room with the aquarium and I'm afraid to turn on the light. I dump a bunch of food into the tank as if that will make up for everything and then this enormous Piranha-type mutated fish leaps out of the murky water and snaps at me. I barely get my arm away in time. Now what does that mean?
In honor of dreams, I wrote about another familiar phenomenon:
Falling in Sleep
It disturbs us.
A nightmare we can't quite recall,
where a hint of evil lingers:
an apple that's too polished,
a clown whose grin is too wide,
an argument too easily won.
It happens when we think it won't.
in the No Man's Land of our minds,
and just as we're settling into our canoes
it's over the ledge,
hearts expanding, filling
each limb with rushing air,
until the bungee cord around our waists
takes back some slack and we bounce,
midair,
blood bubbling in our ears,
legs twitching as we wonder,
why didn't my heart burst?
Monday, September 27, 2010
Not Afraid . . . to admit how much I love Eminem
I know, it's not like the album is new or anything, but whenever one of his songs comes on the radio, I can't help but admire the man. He truly has a gift for writing, besides being a great performer. When he first came out I think I was a little ashamed to say I admired him (for tendencies toward misogyny, homophobia, etc), but even then I was blown away by the way he twisted words, rhyming them internally, externally, slant-ways, you name it. From 2000's "The Way I Am":
And since birth I've been cursed with this curse to just curse
And just blurt this berserk and bizarre sh-t that works
And it sells and it helps in itself to relieve
All this tension dispensin' these sentences
Gettin' this stress that's been eatin' me recently off of this chest
And I rest again peacefully . . .
But at least have the decency in you
To leave me alone, when you freaks see me out
In the streets when I'm eatin' or feedin' my daughter
To not come and speak to me . . .
I don't know you and no,
I don't owe you a mo-therf--k-in' thing
I'm not Mr. N'Sync, I'm not what your friends think
I'm not Mr. Friendly, I can be a prick
If you tempt me my tank is on empty . . .
No patience is in me and if you offend me
I'm liftin' you 10 feet . . . in the air
I don't care who is there and who saw me destroy you
Go call you a lawyer, file you a lawsuit
I'll smile in the courtroom and buy you a wardrobe
I'm tired of arguin' . . .
I don't mean to be mean but that's all I can be is just me
Now if you listen to him when he's featured on another artist's song--Drake's "Forever," for example--his verse blows everyone else out of the water. I don't know if he's just angrier than Kanye or Lil Wayne, but his rhymes have so much power behind them, you can't help but really feel them. Look at the difference between "The Way I Am" and these lyrics from "Not Afraid" and you can tell how he's changed and matured more with the imagery--it's not as literal:
And since birth I've been cursed with this curse to just curse
And just blurt this berserk and bizarre sh-t that works
And it sells and it helps in itself to relieve
All this tension dispensin' these sentences
Gettin' this stress that's been eatin' me recently off of this chest
And I rest again peacefully . . .
But at least have the decency in you
To leave me alone, when you freaks see me out
In the streets when I'm eatin' or feedin' my daughter
To not come and speak to me . . .
I don't know you and no,
I don't owe you a mo-therf--k-in' thing
I'm not Mr. N'Sync, I'm not what your friends think
I'm not Mr. Friendly, I can be a prick
If you tempt me my tank is on empty . . .
No patience is in me and if you offend me
I'm liftin' you 10 feet . . . in the air
I don't care who is there and who saw me destroy you
Go call you a lawyer, file you a lawsuit
I'll smile in the courtroom and buy you a wardrobe
I'm tired of arguin' . . .
I don't mean to be mean but that's all I can be is just me
Now if you listen to him when he's featured on another artist's song--Drake's "Forever," for example--his verse blows everyone else out of the water. I don't know if he's just angrier than Kanye or Lil Wayne, but his rhymes have so much power behind them, you can't help but really feel them. Look at the difference between "The Way I Am" and these lyrics from "Not Afraid" and you can tell how he's changed and matured more with the imagery--it's not as literal:
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