I want a 1GB iPod nano. In black.
It is my new dangling carrot, providing a motivation to work harder. [even though I can barely pay my bills as it is]
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Vanity Post
CRED GR QP
41200 01 ANALY INTERP OF LIT 3.0 A 12.00
41302 03 ENGLISH LITERATURE 2 4.0 A 16.00
41406 03 SHAKESPEARE 1 3.0 A 12.00
41453 01 THE CRAFT OF POETRY 3.0 A 12.00
SEM. CR. TOWARD CUM. 13.0 52.00 4.00*
SEM. CR. TOWARD DEGREE 13.0
TOT. CR. TOWARD DEGREE 111.0
TOT. CR. TOWARD CUM. 40.0 156.04 3.90
*DEAN'S LIST
Semester gpa: 4.00
Cumulative gpa: 3.90
awww, yeah.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Thoughts upon Julius Caesar’s Last Moments
When Caesar said "Et tu, Brute?", in shock
his dying breath contained myriad things:
1024 atoms; a flock
of tiny birds on 1 million billion billion wings.
And in the time between his death and now
they have flown from Rome and into your mouth!
And I hear you wondering aloud, “How?”
They have circulated North, West, East, South—
Casting these oxygen and carbon seeds
across the world over land and ocean.
You likely inhale one or two of these
as your chest rises and falls; the motion
of every single quiet breath
brings the flavor of Caesar’s Death.
© jrs
his dying breath contained myriad things:
1024 atoms; a flock
of tiny birds on 1 million billion billion wings.
And in the time between his death and now
they have flown from Rome and into your mouth!
And I hear you wondering aloud, “How?”
They have circulated North, West, East, South—
Casting these oxygen and carbon seeds
across the world over land and ocean.
You likely inhale one or two of these
as your chest rises and falls; the motion
of every single quiet breath
brings the flavor of Caesar’s Death.
© jrs
Sunday, May 14, 2006
another poem today.
A [sort of] Elegy for the Night-Table
The night-table is an ugly redbrown, the paint slapped on thick,
why were you cast off, left at the curb, a lone bastard son?
Someone had their time with you, and then let you pass
unmourned;. Why? Even as I see you there, unburied,
I know that this is temporary, the interstitial place
where death and potentiation live together, in the
shadowlands. Once loved and now lost, but ready to move on.
I carefully scoop you up, and swaddle you in a wool blanket, bringing you home.
I remove your three drawers, standing them up on cardboard,
numbering them, 1,2,3.
I number your insides and lay you down on a cardboard bed.
Donning a denim apron, I snap on skintight blue nitrile gloves.
I pour varnish remover on your sides, and it slowly rolls down,
aided by a paintbrush in my hand. I wait.
The stripper goes to work, slowly melting and bonding to the old paint, crinkling it up in waves.
The scraper pulls the old finish off in convoluted ribbons, revealing
your honey blond grain beneath, still stained in spots.
Wiping you clean with an old tee shirt, I repeat the process with your drawers, scraping halfmoon carved drawer pulls clean,
feeling echoes of forsaking fingers.
I open another gallon can, hiss of the mouth breathing in the air, sides donging outward. Upending over
another rag, I am bathed in the carcinogen-sweet smell of lacquer thinner.
I wash you carefully with the liquid, running steel wool over your skin,
burnishing out remaining stains.
You dry almost as soon as you are wet, the volatile fumes rising.
I carry you outside, and pour more lacquer thinner upon your face, anointing you.
I strike a match and touch you, setting you alight.
Burning with an ephemeral blue flame, almost invisible,
the heat draws out old wax and impurities.
You sparkle, tiny shining dots push up through your skin.
I put everything away, and begin sanding you with 80 grit
then 120 grit sandpaper,
sloughing off scales, the wind carrying the chaff away,
revealing new wood, untouched and ready
for the kiss of chestnut mist.
© jrs
The night-table is an ugly redbrown, the paint slapped on thick,
why were you cast off, left at the curb, a lone bastard son?
Someone had their time with you, and then let you pass
unmourned;. Why? Even as I see you there, unburied,
I know that this is temporary, the interstitial place
where death and potentiation live together, in the
shadowlands. Once loved and now lost, but ready to move on.
I carefully scoop you up, and swaddle you in a wool blanket, bringing you home.
I remove your three drawers, standing them up on cardboard,
numbering them, 1,2,3.
I number your insides and lay you down on a cardboard bed.
Donning a denim apron, I snap on skintight blue nitrile gloves.
I pour varnish remover on your sides, and it slowly rolls down,
aided by a paintbrush in my hand. I wait.
The stripper goes to work, slowly melting and bonding to the old paint, crinkling it up in waves.
The scraper pulls the old finish off in convoluted ribbons, revealing
your honey blond grain beneath, still stained in spots.
Wiping you clean with an old tee shirt, I repeat the process with your drawers, scraping halfmoon carved drawer pulls clean,
feeling echoes of forsaking fingers.
I open another gallon can, hiss of the mouth breathing in the air, sides donging outward. Upending over
another rag, I am bathed in the carcinogen-sweet smell of lacquer thinner.
I wash you carefully with the liquid, running steel wool over your skin,
burnishing out remaining stains.
You dry almost as soon as you are wet, the volatile fumes rising.
I carry you outside, and pour more lacquer thinner upon your face, anointing you.
I strike a match and touch you, setting you alight.
Burning with an ephemeral blue flame, almost invisible,
the heat draws out old wax and impurities.
You sparkle, tiny shining dots push up through your skin.
I put everything away, and begin sanding you with 80 grit
then 120 grit sandpaper,
sloughing off scales, the wind carrying the chaff away,
revealing new wood, untouched and ready
for the kiss of chestnut mist.
© jrs
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Ulster Pastoral
Stepping out into coolwet morning air, unlock the bike,
tighten my knapsack straps, my breath trailing behind me.
Out onto the street and up, muted clicking of the chain through derailleur,
the rapid bump of tire-nub and the rush of passing cars.
Up the long hill, my legs pumping, warming,
through the town and up, deep breaths and up,
this long slow hill and all my muscles humming;
then, leveling out, and a slow glide across the overpass,
the breeze climbing down my shirt, my jacket flapping.
Over my shoulder, the ridge reclines, bluegreen and wrapped in fog, not quite awake.
Ahead, rolling foothills and low curling mist easing through the treetops, soft puffs of smoke.
The wheel crunches on the shoulder, ploughing through gravel.
Garlic mustard and wild onion sweeten the air. Robins alight in meadows
hopping and pecking. Occasional rabbits
panic and freeze, panic and freeze.
The hawks watch and wheel, waiting for the sun to break through and warm their wings.
Skirting the edges of culverts, the sluggish seep of runoff nourishing mallows and lilies,
the lime carpet of algae rimmed with froth,
the shale piles in thousands of weathered arrowpoints, mounds of slategrey cloven rock,
my legs moving up and down, up and down in tight circles, breathing in time.
Leaning barns with quiet ghosts and rough rust-red tractors watch over fields lain fallow,
The deer flick their tails and dip their heads down as I pass;
Heading east, the sun is a vague corona above the trees;
it pushes through the clouds, guiding me upward,
onward.
© jrs
Stepping out into coolwet morning air, unlock the bike,
tighten my knapsack straps, my breath trailing behind me.
Out onto the street and up, muted clicking of the chain through derailleur,
the rapid bump of tire-nub and the rush of passing cars.
Up the long hill, my legs pumping, warming,
through the town and up, deep breaths and up,
this long slow hill and all my muscles humming;
then, leveling out, and a slow glide across the overpass,
the breeze climbing down my shirt, my jacket flapping.
Over my shoulder, the ridge reclines, bluegreen and wrapped in fog, not quite awake.
Ahead, rolling foothills and low curling mist easing through the treetops, soft puffs of smoke.
The wheel crunches on the shoulder, ploughing through gravel.
Garlic mustard and wild onion sweeten the air. Robins alight in meadows
hopping and pecking. Occasional rabbits
panic and freeze, panic and freeze.
The hawks watch and wheel, waiting for the sun to break through and warm their wings.
Skirting the edges of culverts, the sluggish seep of runoff nourishing mallows and lilies,
the lime carpet of algae rimmed with froth,
the shale piles in thousands of weathered arrowpoints, mounds of slategrey cloven rock,
my legs moving up and down, up and down in tight circles, breathing in time.
Leaning barns with quiet ghosts and rough rust-red tractors watch over fields lain fallow,
The deer flick their tails and dip their heads down as I pass;
Heading east, the sun is a vague corona above the trees;
it pushes through the clouds, guiding me upward,
onward.
© jrs
Saturday, May 06, 2006
okay, another one.
Aubade
The parking lot light shines
through grey Venetian blinds,
an illuminated fence on the floor
Floating in this limitless empty space,
a reference point, defining my place;
it is an anchor, lying on the shore.
Ink-dark carpet ocean:
red and green glowing LED’s
mark a channel, like dim buoys
drifting in slow motion.
Pipes softly hiss and creak
as if trying to speak;
the stress of expansion almost too great.
Quiet stretch and groan, a subdued protest
against bearing this hot unwelcome guest.
An angry slow push against the steel plate
of the straining baseboard;
though the air wafts still soft and warm
it is the calm before the storm,
and cannot be ignored.
Breathing deep next to me
she slumbers peacefully,
her face angelic, relaxed and content
[for she is free from this worry and stress].
I resist the urge to touch and caress
her, lest she wake—this is time well spent
together in our bed—
no place I’d rather be on Earth.
Moments without her have less worth—
morning fills me with dread.
The morning is coming!
Marching dawn is drumming!
The light clicks off and leaves me in blue hue.
Twilight is here and stars are winking out,
I want to hold it back, to rail, scream and shout,
but I know that there’s nothing I can do
but rise and get ready
to shower, shave, brush and get dressed.
[understand I am truly blessed
in love with this lady].
A stack of bills to pay.
Rent’s due on the first day
of the month, or else I wouldn’t get up.
Oh, to stay in bed, in the warmth with you,
there’s nothing I really would rather do;
but without work I cannot fill my cup
or yours with drink, or plates
with food, without money, no rent
paid and eviction notice sent:
we’ll be in dire straits.
The sky is lightening,
the noose is tightening—
I’m desperate to avoid going out,
but I must, and you truly ought to know
that all the day long as I work, although
I have to do what I do, please don’t doubt
I am thinking of you.
You are forever in my mind—
open the grey Venetian blinds,
breathe, and enjoy the view.
© jrs
The parking lot light shines
through grey Venetian blinds,
an illuminated fence on the floor
Floating in this limitless empty space,
a reference point, defining my place;
it is an anchor, lying on the shore.
Ink-dark carpet ocean:
red and green glowing LED’s
mark a channel, like dim buoys
drifting in slow motion.
Pipes softly hiss and creak
as if trying to speak;
the stress of expansion almost too great.
Quiet stretch and groan, a subdued protest
against bearing this hot unwelcome guest.
An angry slow push against the steel plate
of the straining baseboard;
though the air wafts still soft and warm
it is the calm before the storm,
and cannot be ignored.
Breathing deep next to me
she slumbers peacefully,
her face angelic, relaxed and content
[for she is free from this worry and stress].
I resist the urge to touch and caress
her, lest she wake—this is time well spent
together in our bed—
no place I’d rather be on Earth.
Moments without her have less worth—
morning fills me with dread.
The morning is coming!
Marching dawn is drumming!
The light clicks off and leaves me in blue hue.
Twilight is here and stars are winking out,
I want to hold it back, to rail, scream and shout,
but I know that there’s nothing I can do
but rise and get ready
to shower, shave, brush and get dressed.
[understand I am truly blessed
in love with this lady].
A stack of bills to pay.
Rent’s due on the first day
of the month, or else I wouldn’t get up.
Oh, to stay in bed, in the warmth with you,
there’s nothing I really would rather do;
but without work I cannot fill my cup
or yours with drink, or plates
with food, without money, no rent
paid and eviction notice sent:
we’ll be in dire straits.
The sky is lightening,
the noose is tightening—
I’m desperate to avoid going out,
but I must, and you truly ought to know
that all the day long as I work, although
I have to do what I do, please don’t doubt
I am thinking of you.
You are forever in my mind—
open the grey Venetian blinds,
breathe, and enjoy the view.
© jrs
another poem
Keychain
My mother once gave me a compass, so
“I wouldn’t lose my direction”.
It burned in a car fire. Now a new
one, on my belt, needle pointing skyward.
Three key fobs rattle, the print worn away,
the bounce and click a tight marching cadence.
Medals from a war of attrition, still
ongoing; “One Day At A Time” they say.
A finger-sized flashlight shows me the way:
a tiny beacon against stubbed toes at
midnight, tacks, bugs, crumbs, shoes and loose wires.
My magic wand, warding off the unknown.
Further down, a tiny green pocketknife
dangles, home to miniature scissors,
nail file, toothpick, tweezers and tiny blade:
knife useless for all but the smallest task.
Solid-state circuitry hangs just below,
zeroes and ones sit silently waiting.
Thirty poems packed neatly in plastic
and silicon—the size of this stanza.
A pint-sized, felt-tipped, black sharpie marker
for poetic graffiti—scrawled haiku
left in serendipitous locations
bringing smiles to frowning passersby.
Unsurprisingly, there are keys here too—
Siblings in sharp-toothed brass, a patina
from age, like two old pennies: controlling
ingress and egress—the bolt clicks, thunks shut.
© jrs
My mother once gave me a compass, so
“I wouldn’t lose my direction”.
It burned in a car fire. Now a new
one, on my belt, needle pointing skyward.
Three key fobs rattle, the print worn away,
the bounce and click a tight marching cadence.
Medals from a war of attrition, still
ongoing; “One Day At A Time” they say.
A finger-sized flashlight shows me the way:
a tiny beacon against stubbed toes at
midnight, tacks, bugs, crumbs, shoes and loose wires.
My magic wand, warding off the unknown.
Further down, a tiny green pocketknife
dangles, home to miniature scissors,
nail file, toothpick, tweezers and tiny blade:
knife useless for all but the smallest task.
Solid-state circuitry hangs just below,
zeroes and ones sit silently waiting.
Thirty poems packed neatly in plastic
and silicon—the size of this stanza.
A pint-sized, felt-tipped, black sharpie marker
for poetic graffiti—scrawled haiku
left in serendipitous locations
bringing smiles to frowning passersby.
Unsurprisingly, there are keys here too—
Siblings in sharp-toothed brass, a patina
from age, like two old pennies: controlling
ingress and egress—the bolt clicks, thunks shut.
© jrs
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
The standard all students should aspire to.
Of studye took he most cure and most heede.
Nought oo word spak he more than was neede,
And that was said in forme and reverence,
And short and quik, and ful of heigh sentence:
Souning in moral vertu wa his speeche,
And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.
Nought oo word spak he more than was neede,
And that was said in forme and reverence,
And short and quik, and ful of heigh sentence:
Souning in moral vertu wa his speeche,
And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Why A | Ask MetaFilter
Ask MetaFilter: "Why do the letters of the alphabet occur in the particular order that they do?"
This is part of the reason I love MetaFilter
This is part of the reason I love MetaFilter
Saturday, April 01, 2006
An excerpt on the chinese concept of an ideal home, as seen in Lin Yutang's The Importance of Living, and Barry Hugheart's Bridge of Birds.
Inside the gate there is a footpath, and the footpath must be winding. At the turn of the footpath there is an outdoor screen, and the screen must be small. Behind the screen there is a terrace, and the terrace must be level. On the banks of the terrace there are flowers, and the flowers must be bright-colored. Beyond the terrace there is a wall, and the wall must be low. By the side of the wall is a pine tree, and the pine must be old. At the foot of the pine there are rocks, and the rocks must be quaint. Over the rocks there is a pavilion, and the pavilion must be simple. Beyond the pavilion are bamboos, and the bamboos must be sparse. At the end of the bamboos there is a house, and the house must be secluded. By the side of the house is a road, and the road must branch off. Where several branches come together is a bridge, and the bridge must be tantalizing to cross. At the end of the bridge there are trees, and the trees must be tall. In the shade of the trees there is grass, and the grass must be green. Above the grass plot is a ditch, and the ditch must be slender. At the top of the ditch is a spring, and the spring must gurgle. Above the spring there is a hill, and the hill must be undulating. Below the hill is a hall, and the hall must be square. At the corner of the hall there is a vegetable garden, and the garden must be big. In the garden is a stork, and the stork must dance. The stork announces that there is a guest, and the guest must not be vulgar. When the guest arrives he is offered wine, and the wine must not be declined. At the drink the guest must get drunk, and the drunken guest must not want to go home.
[originally posted on IEATTAPES by 31d1]
Inside the gate there is a footpath, and the footpath must be winding. At the turn of the footpath there is an outdoor screen, and the screen must be small. Behind the screen there is a terrace, and the terrace must be level. On the banks of the terrace there are flowers, and the flowers must be bright-colored. Beyond the terrace there is a wall, and the wall must be low. By the side of the wall is a pine tree, and the pine must be old. At the foot of the pine there are rocks, and the rocks must be quaint. Over the rocks there is a pavilion, and the pavilion must be simple. Beyond the pavilion are bamboos, and the bamboos must be sparse. At the end of the bamboos there is a house, and the house must be secluded. By the side of the house is a road, and the road must branch off. Where several branches come together is a bridge, and the bridge must be tantalizing to cross. At the end of the bridge there are trees, and the trees must be tall. In the shade of the trees there is grass, and the grass must be green. Above the grass plot is a ditch, and the ditch must be slender. At the top of the ditch is a spring, and the spring must gurgle. Above the spring there is a hill, and the hill must be undulating. Below the hill is a hall, and the hall must be square. At the corner of the hall there is a vegetable garden, and the garden must be big. In the garden is a stork, and the stork must dance. The stork announces that there is a guest, and the guest must not be vulgar. When the guest arrives he is offered wine, and the wine must not be declined. At the drink the guest must get drunk, and the drunken guest must not want to go home.
[originally posted on IEATTAPES by 31d1]
Friday, March 17, 2006
A Neuropathic Villanelle
We all have our crosses to bear
I clench tight my fist, knuckles in white rows—
All I can do is sit and stare.
Spitting and popping, my nerves are flayed bare,
I can’t transcend the pain, and I suppose
we all have our crosses to bear.
The smoldering silent biting Night-mare:
Its fire creeps slowly, as if it knows
All I can do is sit and stare.
Only so much and it begins to wear
me down—wordless passion and twisted pose:
We all have our crosses to bear.
When I’m stressed it comes as a white-hot flare,
and when relaxed, sparks as it comes and goes—
all I can do is sit and stare.
Sometimes, I forget I have a hand there—
It’s a little loss of self, and God knows
we all have our crosses to bear.
All I can do is sit and stare.
© 2006
We all have our crosses to bear
I clench tight my fist, knuckles in white rows—
All I can do is sit and stare.
Spitting and popping, my nerves are flayed bare,
I can’t transcend the pain, and I suppose
we all have our crosses to bear.
The smoldering silent biting Night-mare:
Its fire creeps slowly, as if it knows
All I can do is sit and stare.
Only so much and it begins to wear
me down—wordless passion and twisted pose:
We all have our crosses to bear.
When I’m stressed it comes as a white-hot flare,
and when relaxed, sparks as it comes and goes—
all I can do is sit and stare.
Sometimes, I forget I have a hand there—
It’s a little loss of self, and God knows
we all have our crosses to bear.
All I can do is sit and stare.
© 2006
Flash IPA chart
need to know what an unvoiced/voiceless alveolar lateral fricative sounds like? All your phonetic issues solved at the touch of a button or two. From Paul Meier Dialect Services.
Also see
Wikipedia on IPA, and the IPA's Homepage.
Also see
Wikipedia on IPA, and the IPA's Homepage.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare
MIT has The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, [except for the Sonnets] all in one place.
Good site for the Sonnets here.
Good site for the Sonnets here.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Easy on the Hooptedoodle
3. Never use a verb other than "said" to carry dialogue.
Mystery Ink: 10 Rules for Writing by Elmore Leonard
Mystery Ink: 10 Rules for Writing by Elmore Leonard
Just found this...
Considering that I have only been averaging roughly four hours of sleep a night for the past several weeks, and haven't produced much in terms of writing, I thought I'd share this link with everyone- It's a series of Free Writing Prompts from writersdigest.com. There's a new one every day, and many from the past that one may browse through.
I'm sitting at my desk, sipping a maté, and wondering which one I should attempt today.
I'm sitting at my desk, sipping a maté, and wondering which one I should attempt today.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
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