Archive for the ‘I arted’ Category
oh Father, I have never known
disappointment like yours.
the crows that left their feet dented in your drawing board
dive into view as I defy my destiny.
we are reckless because we evolve; we are mortal and motionless and instincts for survival collide at ninety degrees: an instant made solely of broken feathers,
broken glass, and broken blood.
I’ve had this partial poem in medias res stuck in a word document for over 8 years. Like a lot of things in my life, I have no idea how to begin or finish it. So here it is. Something with the potential to come in third place at a poetry reading if only it had a frame.
This is the first time I’m depressed during the summer for no distinct, discernible reason. The variable here is the Seroquel, which is great for the panic disorder, terrible for things like paying attention or enjoying life. Oh, and the being stuck in a poverty trap, because I need to keep my income low to qualify for Medicaid. ‘Merica.
This is a pretty emotive acoustic piano cover of Brand New’s Jesus Christ:
I’m still an atheist, but I’ve always been fascinated with the cultural power of religious imagery and also as literary archetypes. The doctrines might be bullshit, but stories have staying power for a reason. And that’s the part that interests me. How do you pierce the collective consciousness with your words?
Mary Karr does it pretty damn well in this piece that was obviously about David Foster Wallace:
I loved so my ghost might inhabit you and you ingest my belief
in your otherwise-only-probable soul. I wonder does your
death feel like failure to everybody who ever
loved you as if our collective cpr stopped
too soon, the defib paddles lost charge, the corpse
punished us by never sitting up. And forgive my conviction
that every suicide’s an asshole. There is a good reason I am not
God, for I would cruelly smite the self-smitten.
I just wanted to say ha-ha, despite
your best efforts you are every second
alive in a hard-gnawing way for all who breathed you deeply in,
each set of lungs, those rosy implanted wings, pink balloons.
We sigh you out into air and watch you rise like rain.
We are just interjections, enjambed upon the line breaks of our lives.
Categories: Autobiographical Stories, I arted Tags: depression, jesus christ, mary karr, medication, poem, poetry, religion
I’m still alive, sort of. Still lacking in motivation to produce any form of original content. My blog is like the stepchild in a broken home that I give inconsistent amounts of attention to and can’t decide if I like or not.
Filler post for December.
I’m running out filler material for this place actually; most of the poetry I wrote in high school does not stand the test of time. (Oh, the angst. Never quite The Pain Tree bad, but still cringe-worthy enough to never be shared.) But there was some clever enjambment in here that I still like.
Nerdy, Angry, Fuck
- Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse
I think it’s hot when strippers cry on their master’s degrees, when meteorologists make innuendos
when your mother pretends to be Jewish.
Sometimes I wish I had synesthesia so I could palpate youtube’s myriad turtle sex clips with my retinas though I wish there was more to do on a Friday night than watching
ugly animals fuck online.
I have a Dukakis sticker on my teenage mutant ninja turtles lunchbox from 88′ It’s currently filled with positive pregnancy tests, disposable cell phones
and a picture of your mother.
Love insurance premiums: $99.99 a month!
Good student discounts. Press 1 for more options.
It’s like that time I asked why she didn’t love me anymore and she replied
“supply side economics.”
I told her her metaphor sucked; our relationship had too many uncertainty principles
to be graphed criss-cross on an X and Y axis,
We were more like 2 out-of-sync sine waves reaching for infinity
until the tequila ran out.
Para continuar en las lenguas románticas
oprime el número dos.
I sent a letter of complaint to her new PO Box in MN, asking her to return my soul for the full amount, in the payment method
in which it was received.
She doesn’t know it, but she’s still the spaces between my fingers when I’m clawing for sanity in my sleep and the moment mid-clasp, when I stop. Go limp. Lips.
Categories: I arted Tags: free verse, fuck, love, poem, poetry, writing
This is from The Vault of Adolescence.
(Loud emergency signal beep at the beginning.)
Randolph High School Mass Media II J-term exam. Canon GL2. Adobe Premiere Pro. 2005.
It was mostly a Photoshop assignment, but the video segment had some weird constraints if I remember correctly. Fast motion, slow motion, a minute flat editing after the emergency beep, and different types of camera angles. So it was edited a little quickly and awkwardly. But I think mine was the best in the class given that it due during exam week.
I was a child. That’s weird to think about. I still have that pink tank top.
Thanks to RHS for having the most badass Mass Media program in New Jersey.
Also, thanks to neofelix for being my partner-in-crime.
Categories: I arted Tags: film, fire, guitar, high school, mass media, Randolph High School, RHS, smash, teenager, violence
This was the first piece I did for my first art class “Design Fundamentals” in high school.
POETRY for the Deaf
Click for full resolution
I didn’t really draw back then and still don’t. But I discovered I liked painting (acrylics) my freshman year in stage crew and decided to take an introductory art class the next year. I took several pictures of my own hand for use as reference pictures in this drawing. It’s entirely #2 pencil if I remember.
My art teacher loved it, and put it in the art show.
Then when I took it home, my Asian dad disowned me because it wasn’t technically perfect.
I had low self-esteem as a child.
ASL Alphabet Chart Here.
Categories: I arted Tags: #2, art, Drawing, hand, hands, Human Form, Pencil, Shading, Sketch, Sketching
I’ve been super busy this week with socializing and job searching, but I have been trying to maintain this blog on a semi-regular basis. When I’m lazy or there’s no interesting news about to comment on, I’ve decided to default to a good autobiographical life advice post.
For those of you that don’t know, I used to write poetry. I never thought it was that good–more like broken prose with clever enjambment. (I never did write a sonnet that I was fully happy with.) There were some cheap PoMo tricks, like line breaking on a word with multiple meanings, that I used very often back then and still do, to some extent, in my prose. But I haven’t written anything that was more poetry than than prose in recent years since non-fiction has consumed my soul.
I will testify that studying classic and modern poetry when I was a teenager has greatly improved my general writing skills as an adult. English profs know it well: When you start analyzing poetry on a functional level below interpretation and meaning, you start paying attention to literary elements like syntax, punctuation, and rhythm. And all writing starts to “flow” better.
Alliteration and assonance all over everything. < See what I did there with “alliteration” and “all?” There are also “v” sounds in “over” and “everything” that create a cohesive sound pattern. (Repetition of consonant sounds is called “consonance.”) These techniques and literary devices work, whether you’re consciously aware of them or not, and this is generally how people judge a work as “good”–based on these literary devices embedded in historical standards.
If you’re a writer, it’s good to be consciously aware of these literary devices (not to be confused with the larger concept of literary techniques), so you can use them to your advantage.
Check out those links that I hyperlinked above if you don’t know anything about poetic devices. If you’re a writer that wants to get better, and you haven’t already, start paying attention to the poetic devices that you already use.
Feel free to ask questions in the comments.
— [Edit: Sorry, I had to manually fix the HTML since it formatted weird after I prematurely submitted.]
Riddle Me Pinks…
- by ~FireSoulPhoenix, Mar 5, 2007, 7:14:58 PM
- Candice Hall
Baby takes another hit, she’s passed the point where peripheral vision blurs into her inverted gut and she cries about the virus of society she’s afraid
she’s catching tonight
Baby is an oxymoron,
murphy’s law on mute– the way she’ll waste bootlaces in urinals to see what shape they make when they float leave bumblebee pinstripes and chalk scrawled
half past noon,
I GOT HER PREGNANT
on the changing station
(an ephemeral epithet,
a graffiti-fied gaffe)
Oh baby, “this is the art of perfecting denial,” she’ll exhale before passing to the right because she’s just that much of an insidious
(her palms drip like the festering manifestoes of bad hair dye jobs
and thrift store sweaters)
Doctor, Doctor, don’t bother it’s Sunday now; she’s alone in a crowd. the children will be coming home for Christmas and she’s
let the cat out again.
Visual piece also from my angsty teen days:
(There were large callouses on my feet in high school, so the pins didn’t hurt.)
Categories: I arted, Knowledge has vagina dentata so don’t you fuck with it Tags: advice, angst, English, literature, poetry, prose, teenager, writing
My Photoshop skills ain’t what they used to be.
I have a bunch of stuff sitting around in my old DeviantArt account that I can use as filler posts here when I don’t feel like writing or analyzing the news.
DA also had a close-knit, talented writing community back in the day. I actually learned a lot about the technical aspects of poetry from that site. But everyone left when they realized how many shitty writers only interested +fav circle jerks were on the site.
Flickr and other sites that don’t rape your artist rights kinda makes them obsolete.
Categories: I arted Tags: art, artists, circle jerk, DA, deviantart, digital art, photomanipulation, photoshop
I ordered boots from shoebuy.com nearly 2 weeks ago. A few days ago, I sent them a nice e-mail asking why they haven’t shipped them yet. No response! The original confirmation e-mail said that they would ship in “1-5 days.”
At this point, I don’t even know if they actually have them in stock. For a big site with so much advertising, you’d think they’d have better customer service.
I drew a nice picture with explosive diarrhea expressing my sentiments for this online retailer.
I’m in NJ at the moment where it’s easier to ship things and going back to Brooklyn permanently on the 11th. If they don’t tell me what’s going on by Saturday, I’m going to try to contact them again to cancel the order.
Categories: I arted, Reviews Tags: art, boots, customer service, graphic design, poop in shoe, poopy shoe, shoebuy review, shoebuy.com