For Example

19 February 2011

Mr. Cover Letter, Sr. Bane of My Existence

Company Hiring Managers

Everywhere, USA

Dear Mr. Letter,

Writing a cover letter is like:

1. jumping through a fiery hoop of expectations.
2. an awkward first phone date. (does anyone do that?)
3. trying to impress your friend's perfect parents.
4. taking that part of writing class in highschool all over again.
5. putting really colorful pictures on the front of an ordinary pack of #2 pencils. either you want and will use the pencils or you don't and won't.

I will call you in the following week to schedule a time we can further discuss my disgust for you.

Sincerely,

Over It

P.S. Minimum wage college graduates everywhere can vouch for my sincerity.

twitter/robotsoncrack

twitter/robotsoncrack

beginning and end

A little while ago I scribbled a couple of lines on a page in my living room, and the next day someone else had written a final line to it. It's silly and short:

Rain drops from the sky

while you drop your rhymes

like a white guy.

The End.

Testament (continued again)

The astronaut wants to be home, shaking restlessness from his back.
The home wants to be the fire with its thick-walled warmth.
The fire wants to be the fresh air sitting heavy in your lungs.
The air wants to be the strong tower of tangible stone.
The tower wants to be the rain suspended over ground.
The rain wants to be still.
The stillness wants to be your voice raised in singing.
The voice wants to be the canvas holding bright colours.

by: Anna Shogren

Testament

The cat wants to be a strong thing - a hand, a tree.

The girl wants to be a pirate, in a tree.

The tree wants to be the pond with its face of shining.

The pond wants to be the sun who dumps its sugar on the grass.

The grass wants to be the foot, its sole, its heel.

The foot wants to be the brain who always gets to choose.

The brain wants to be the feet dumb in their shoes.

The shoe wants to be the buckle that the girl shines with a cloth.

The buckle wants to be the magpie lifting what shines.

The magpie wants to be the egg in the nest touching its brother.

The egg wants to be the feather.

The feather wants to be the mite, devouring its plume.

by: Conne Voisine

Continuing Thoughts on Testament

The mite wants to be the wind, warm in a bird's wing,

the wind wants to be a redhead, flashing her bright smile,

the redhead wants to be a rose, picked just before Valentine's Day,

the rose wants to be the earth and hold trees in her hands,

the earth wants to be the sun, to see far far away,

the sun wants to be the moon, who looks different every night,

the moon wants to be an astronaut who does something for the very first time.

by: jen addis

Anyone else want to respond (in any sort of way) to the Testament poem?

"Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns."
-George Eliot

what do you think?

How do you feel about this look? I am not sold on it, but we needed some re-styling so I'm working on it. Any ideas? Any opinions? Does anyone have anything to post?

keep those words coming...

ideas, ideas, and ideas

I know this is a writing blog, but something inspired me to write so I'm sharing her art with you: (yes, it is slightly girly, but I'm a girl.)

www.lisaonstad.blogspot.com

You can see her artwork at Posies Cafe up in NoPo on Kenton Street while sitting in a lovely wingback chair, maybe even the yellow one.

Also, here are two little writing exercises I did the other day:

#1 Word Association - write the first thing that comes to mind when you see these words.
1. Red little ________
2. Comfort equals ________
3. This pattern makes me feel crazy _________
4. This pattern makes me feel happy ________
5. I could spend the whole day at __________
6. This type of art intimidates me __________
7. I wish I could have coffee with __________
8. The perfect color combination is _________
9. The elements to perfect inspiration are _________
10. If I could live in another decade it would be _________
11. This musical artist inspires me _________
12. I want to wear more ___________
13. I think my curtains are __________
14. The last thing that really caught my eye was __________
15. When I visit the museum _____________
16. I wish I knew more about ___________
17. The best smell in the world is ___________


#2 Write 20 things you like to do. Then write the last time you did them (approximately).

Thank you to Olivia Moore for sharing these on her creativity blog.

When I Knew Him

He died.
Car accident, eulogy, funeral, crying, etc.
The usual.

He changed.
Red tie, red car, red dress for a birthday
Where he hit on me once.

But that was when I knew him.
I like to pretend he was the same
as before.

They assumed "no intoxicants were involved"
Two days before life began.

Now just a red bracelet,
Dedicated to someone I never knew.

april

under damp dark earth

a small life inhales and dreams

of deep roots and light.

i am inspired.

Today we met some neighbors having a yard sale; they are moving to Pennsylvania to teach, and they were selling their treasures to fund their journey. We made some key purchases, and kept walking. Three of my roommates and I rode our bikes to the park soon after to have a picnic.. not only was it the most beautiful and warm day, but one of Sloane's yard sale purchases included a book of poetry for us to read to each other. ! Mr. Lawrence has been the inspiration for the afternoon of joy that ensued. I want to share it with you.

GREEN

The dawn was apple-green,

The sky was green wine held up in the sun,

The moon was a golden petal between.

She opened her eyes, and green

They shone, clear like flowers undone

For the first time, now for the first time seen.

-D. H. Lawrence

ever so

Cocoon is spun
that wings may grow
he dormant lies
'til time to go
though it seems a fearsome trap
as thrashing, pushes to break out.
Don't help him, or you'll handicap
his strength for flying here and fro
delicately, ever so.

Winter comes to call for spring
and 8,000 seasons ago
Seed of Heaven died that life
could come from frozen ground below.
Scraped knees and shattered hearts
subtle, tiny hands to mend
and open windows in dingy parts.
Wait patiently for Whom you know
comes delicately, ever so.





[art by olga ziemska]

they like the view.

it’s midnight

you scream of things much darker

collapse into the damp chill of our unmade lawn

drunk hands choke the floral pattern of your vintage dress

bedtime stories for the neighbors

it’s morning

you wear a halo of things much lighter

build in our garden the warmth of progress

muddy hands rest on the slights of your bare body

this view is why we still have neighbors

listening at night

Cheers, self.
You've done a great job of monologuing today.

I've listened to this before, and
I'm tired of hearing you say the the
same words while I sing along
and play your melodies in my head
on my way to sleep.

I can't stay awake and
I like it that way; I expect
dreaming of tomorrow will be better
than remembering yesterday and
I hear you chant your hallelujah in agreement.

dreamy haiku

pink paper necklace
intrigues me but $fifties hurt
here i go to run

I believe in you. Your magic is real.

white paper cut-out stars,
hang in the dark sky for us to take.
one wonders why it should ever be cloudy:
your magic is real, so why aren't you using it.
you can have the world for yourself.
you don't ever have to worry about losing it.
the magic inside of you is infinite.
it's bigger than what we know of ourselves.

A View of the Apparition

On days when the city scape does not look real,

like paint, backwash color, illusion of steel.

When mountain tops shine bright white splinters of light,

I breathe the pollution. My chest becomes tight.

The roaches start scattering away from our sight.

We sit and stare blankly, and dream until night.

Both frightened and threatened by material.

You should press on my eye balls and mash up my skull.

Make me forget things I wanted to be.

Help me remember life based upon need.

Something reminded me

I remember the smell of sea salt

in the heavy humid air that hangs,

fastened to the bottom of puffy clouds full of rain,

and remains alive but still as I breathe it in.

An awkward and (hopefully unintentionally) offensive interaction I, a white twentysomething, had with an elderly white gentleman today, the day celebrating the life of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Me: Hi, what can I get for you?

Elderly White Gentleman: Tall coffee. Black.

Me: That'll be a dollar fifty, unless there's anything else.

EWG: No, that'll do it. Pretty quiet around here, huh?

Me: Yeah, a lot of people have the holiday off.

EWG: I guess just us slaves have to work today.

Me: ...

EWG: Have a good day.

Me: ...Uh, you too.

What's a four letter word for somebody meaningful?

Day after day, I walk up to the yellow box, four shiny coins in my hand. As I drop the quarters in their slot, anticipation trembles through my body.

I grab the morning edition hastily, flipping past murders, political wrongdoing, weather reports, dog and cat stories, cars for sale, and the latest sports scores.

At last, I find what I'm looking for. Scanning the boxes within boxes, and the corresponding clues, answers are already coming to me. I dig in my bag for a writing implement, hoping to find one in my bag.

The puzzle gets filled out quickly. I try to erase the smugness away,thinking it'll get harder as the week progresses. I give a nod to Mr. Shortz and his ilk, for a job well done.

I've acquired a bit of a reputation for my morning obsession, and I don't exactly hate it.

But why am I so compulsive about it? Is it to show off how smart I am, displaying my intellectual hubris like a gold medal around my neck? Yeah, maybe a little bit. There is a far more important reason: you.

That cool spring day in the park, where we sat with pens in hand, staring blankly at the page, trying something new. Prior to that, I'd never really tried one.

So as I sit everyday, working on acrosses and downs, i hold a little piece of you, us. A fragment of something much bigger. A memory of something that once was, and the possibility of what could be. Thank you.