Maxine

Oh Maxine,

I've only met you once, and only for a few minutes, but that doesn't mean I can't be in love. You had me at first sight. I spotted you crossing the street, looking dashing in black and white. I crossed quickly behind you - I smiled as our eyes met. You approached me readily, naively, innocently, yet steadily. Your voice when you spoke was soft and sweet as a cat's meow. I wanted to hold your small slender body and stare into your large endearing eyes forever... but you saw your father approaching across the road and I had to pretend I had somewhere to go --

My dear Maxine, will I ever see you again?

                          Yours, in hopes that this will somehow find its way back to you in case I don't,
                           MRF

This is about a cat by the way. A cat named Maxine who I met yesterday while walking with a friend. It's basically a true story, except her father was actually rather nice and chatted with us for a while, and we really did have to run away for fear of being late to a rehearsal. Ah Maxine-the-manx-cross, you are so adorable. I nearly died from cuteness overload. Maxine, if you or your daddy are out there reading this, you absolutely made my day yesterday. I wish you all the happiness and cuteness a cat can have in her happy cat life.

Predator and Prey - a mystery by Jacqueline Wong, Ashley Tsang, and Michelle Feng

“Last month, the police force apprehended the chief suspect of the recent string of serial killings, but another person has recently gone missing. All of the victims were men in their twenties and thirties, and were last seen leaving respectable pubs after an evening of revelry. Each disappearance occurred roughly one month apart, with the first being thirteen months ago. As the death toll mounts, it seems that the police have fallen upon the wrong suspect. One can only wonder whether they are up to the challenge. This has been Bruce Navid for the Crime Radio News. Thanks for listening, we’ll be right back after a short break.”

    The jingle of the newscast played for a few seconds, before being replaced by the sound of saxophones and piano keys. “Tired after a long day at work? Settle down for a relaxing dinner at Acheron’s Kitchen, voted the best comfort food in town.” The car radio was switched off abruptly by the middle-aged man in the driver’s seat.

    “Damn,” muttered Dan as the light ahead turned yellow. “That idiot Sullivan screwed up again. Whaddya expect...” After a moment’s impatient pause, he cranked the wheel and turned into an alley instead. Three-fourths of the way along he pulled into a parking lot behind a brick building. Locking and slamming the door, he strode up to the back door.

Lit Terms for Dummies - Internal Conflict

"To be, or not to be: that is the question." - Hamlet

I came up with this idea after witnessing a rather entertaining scene while brushing my teeth. Internal Conflict came to mind immediately. 

(A Bathroom in our Household)

Enter two sisters.

YOUNGER SISTER: Oh my god. What is that? Shelley, there's a bump on my forehead. What IS it? [squinting] Is it a pimple? A wart? Oh my god, it's a pimple. How do I get rid of it? I want to poke it... should I poke it?

OLDER SISTER: Don't poke it.

YOUNGER SISTER: If I poke it it will get worse. Should I pop it?

OLDER SISTER: Don't pop it.

YOUNGER SISTER: No... I shouldn't. Don't touch it, don't poke it, don't pop it, just walk away... But how do I walk away from my own forehead? [pained expression] Don't poke, don't poke, don't poke. I WANT TO POKE IT SO MUCH! BUT I CAN'T!

 To poke, or not to poke...

 THAT is the question.

you know,...

You know, what makes me hate a rainy day the most is the sanguinary tang of it - the stifling sting of metal and the emptied, sucked-out carcasses of worms leftover from a pitiful dawn.

february viewfinder

Imagine you are a tiny insect in winter, crawling over a vast tree-land. The bark ridges become mountains capped with snowy fungus, and the spongy mosses hard-hearted coniferous forests. With unsurpassable determination you scale your way over peeling cliffs of mint-white fungus; insurmountable single-mindedness carries you through the deep, dark brush and tendrils which tower above your hardy, exo-skeletoned body. Hidden in the shale-like folds of fungus and the understory of gentle green, you are at least sheltered from the wind and sun. You make your way homeward, with the self-sacrificial determination only an ant can possess, across the wide organic landscape that, deep inside, pulses and grows along with you.

Dear Beautiful - another love letter term 2 project

I can't believe I haven't posted for so long, but there's been a lot of travel and I haven't really been able to stay in one place long enough to perfect something to put up. I started so many things in the last few weeks but never properly finished any of them! There will definitely be more things posted in a few more weeks.

For our term 2 project we were supposed to redo a journal entry from term 1. That was really hard for me. I had some okay ideas but they never really worked out. In the end I had to fall back on an oldie but goodie - another love letter to a stranger. Well, I shouldn't really say "fall back" because it's more like fall forward, she was so inspiring for some reason. So here's my term 2 project, "Dear Beautiful"...

Being New School

Hi! You may have realized I actually use capital letters in the post title for once. Well, that's because this is a very important post.

Remember I mentioned making a video some time ago? Well I made it. And it could win me a full or partial scholarship to study music in New York, at Mannes the New School for Music! It's certainly far from perfect. I'm a musician and a writer, not a film director. And I did write the music and words myself. You can see them on the crumpled up paper. I apologize for my terrible handwriting.

Now you've seen it, I would really appreciate it if you would recommend me for this scholarship! Please go to the link below to leave a comment by Feb 10:
www.thenewschoolcompetition.com/TC.html#profile/public/c6de3279-16ce-4109-ada0-6208d6def334

Yeah, I know I'm crazy to try and go into music. It's going to be tough. But I will be happy. So thanks for your help!

flower toast and a tall tale

I spent Friday afternoon surfing the internet and looking at food and craft ideas. So this was my breakfast on Saturday morning. Took way too long to make, I definitely need to practice making this. If it weren't for my incredibly competitive perfectionist nature I would have given up after the first like... 4 attempts.

Oh well. Since I seem to have an aversion to cooking anything other than eggs, rice and dessert, this will be something to add to my repertoire.

Other than that I have a very interesting story for today. It almost sounds like a tall tale, it's so interesting. But I assure you it is true.

snippet

"stars like salt crystals scattered across black asphalt"

I was walking outside one night last weekend and, lucky me, for once it wasn't raining. It was pretty near freezing though, and as I hurried along the sidewalk with my shivering elbows tucked in as close as I could, I looked up and I looked down and that's what I saw.

I like the feel of the words in my mouth, especially "asphalt". Such lovely consonants. Not sure if this will end up in a poem or something else yet. We'll see.

a scarf and a submission to New Shoots

island winter
we are smothered     cradled in

rainforest snow
     , drips,
     foams

Sleep through the icy clouds of dreams -
The snow calls forth nightmares and yearnings which grow hot in our hearts.
We eat and
     crack
cinnamon twigs

Cling to one another and air the embers.

the world cries and flutters and straightens itself
in winter
we live

seafoam snow, bright as magic

I hold in my hand a ring of diamonds that leaves me cold and poor,
So I wrap myself more tightly
and disappear into the melting peace.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is a poem for cold weather that I submitted to the New Shoots publication. Snow makes me feel so good, don't you think so too? Too bad we almost never have it in Vancouver. What is the point of it being so cold if it doesn't snow?

I suppose it gives me an excuse to knit. I finished this circle scarf/cowl thing on Christmas eve, well technically Christmas day since it was past midnight, after being sick for a few days and having no energy to do anything except read, watch movies and knit.

Here is my beautiful scarf modeled by my beautiful cat. His name is Pasha. I think it suits him, no? He looks very glamourous. Like a cat movie star.

 

another year...

My New Year's resolution is a bit of a misnomer because I made it this afternoon. This year I resolve to post more often on this blog. So watch out world..... here I come........

Starting tomorrow. 'Cause tonight I have to study The Picture of Dorian Gray. 

yours, anywhere in the world

My dear,

            I apologize for the long delay since my last letter. I have no excuse besides my own idiocy in allowing my wallet to be stolen. I have been working odd jobs around the village in order to earn my keep, and will soon have gathered enough to be able to leave said town and continue my travels.

            Before moving on I feel I must present to you an account of my adventures since my last letter. Presently I am lodging in a small room on the outskirts of what passes for a large city out here. The woman who owns this place was kind enough to allow me room and board in exchange only for my help with some chores – gathering firewood, repairing household fixtures, and such. She has a grandson – well, I know that they are not related, and that she adopted him after he was abandoned as a baby. They have been very good to me since the beginning. I feel greatly indebted to their generosity. The house is not in the best condition, but I have promised to send them more materials for repairs and the like after I have returned home.

            You see, most of the people were somewhat hostile to having a foreigner, a stranger from faraway lands, in their own little hometown. I can’t blame them for their coldness. I don’t believe most of them have seen a white man like myself before. The locals shunned me, except for one bold child who approached me with the curiosity and naivety that disguise themselves as bravery in children. I hardly knew his language, and he not at all mine, but he must have somehow known and understood my weariness. He took me to his grandmother, and they took me into their home. Eventually the others came to accept me as well, but I cannot prey off their generosity forever. Soon I must move on.

There must be some sense bestowed upon children – they, who have always been affected by and affected others the most, are able to see something that we cannot in the faces and gestures of others. And they, those little ones who open their hearts most generously, they are the ones most often hurt by the coarseness of mankind…

            I do hope that child will keep his gentleness beyond his boyhood. It is a rare man who does – men are too frightened to understand each other – but it is a rare gift to those who do. I wonder, have I…?

            Enclosed is a photo of the village; you see what conditions these people live in! I could not bear to have known them and not have eased their burdens at least a bit. And they tell me that there are much worse places to be found – will I find them?

            I will leave here in a few days to make my way home. We shall see each other soon, I promise. Until then.

Yours, anywhere in the world.

(The actual photo on the card is by Barbara Hanson)

articles with voice

I actually wrote this way back in September and just forgot about it after that. Now that I think about it, is was a lot of fun to write this one.

     Last night I had a horrible dream. It must have been because of the terrible stories the younger daughter told when she came back from school yesterday. I have decided that the older one, who owns me and often plays on me, is mature enough to be trusted. Since dreaming that terrifying dream though, I know I will be wary of the little one.
     In my dream it was the early afternoon. I knew that right way, although I'm not sure how, as I was completely wrapped in a dusty fabric case - hot, suffocating fake velvet. I could see nothing. I only felt the hard plastic weight of my neighbours pressing against me through each of their thin fabric coverings. We helplessly jostled each other as someone far stronger and larger entered the room and moved towards us with great shuddering steps. We swayed and were pushed against gravity as we were lifted up and up, and I could hear the faint muffled chinking of my poor comrades as they collided with each other, with the cardboard prison walls, with me.
     We were breathless, voiceless, helpless.
     The human bumped us up a set of stairs and into another room. We all slid sideways as she shifted her weight to shoulder open a door. Immediately we were assaulted by the noise - what unbearable infernal noise! Shouting and screaming and high-pitched wailing. But it was nothing to what was still to come.
      The human set us down now and addressed her audience. "Boys and girls, welcome to your first music class of the year!" she shrilled in the slightly freakish, over-enunciated voice that all elementary teachers develop.
     The children screamed happily.
     "Now, when I call your name please come up to the front. Jessica... Timmy... Natalie..."
     I waited as the bodies above me were removed one by one, and the sunlight streamed in more clearly and harshly through my thin fabric case. With each moment, as the light grew brighter, the noise outside grew shriller and more diabolical. I trembled and tried to bury myself deeper in the cardboard box which now seemed my last sanctuary, but I could not move. I could only feel the shapes of those beneath me still. The light grew brighter still, and as my fellows above me were removed they screamed like the devil... the light was blinding...

lark sings in ephemeral may of meadow rose

 This is a project called the "Humement" that we did. It's basically taking a page out of a book and altering it, leaving some words behind that make a coherent phrase or story. Mine says "lark sings in ephemeral May of meadow rose". I wanted to do something really dark to contrast with the pretty flowery images. First I chose the words and letters that I wanted, then I coloured over the the path of the phrase with a white crayon. I coloured the rest of the page with different coloured crayons - mostly blues, yellows, pinks in the top half, blending into earthier reds and greens. Then I went over everything with ink and a sponge, and sort of scratched out a few bits to make some patterns.

 Here on the bottom right I did a scratched-out rose. Obviously I'm not an art major but I tried.

 The wavy lines are meant to evoke the wind. 

 Here's a closer-up photo of the path of my phrase.

~~~~~~~~

And here, because it relates to ripped-up books as well, I have a lovely illustration and definition of an oboe from the same old dictionary that my humement came from.I mounted it on some cardstock, put a clothespin on it and taped it on the door to my room.

The definition says: "a wooden musical instrument in which a thin, poignant tone is produced by a double reed."

autumn viewfinder

 The grim sun hides and the shadows are black as dirt, yet in the soil something is growing still. A prickly green arm stretches out, half-smothered by fiery leaves, the burning effigies of a dead spring. It is a weed, a plant most hated by humans who delude themselves into taming nature, but fragile and feeble as it is I cannot help wishing it well. With an effort of small struggling perseverance it reaches out its awkward spiny leaves to embrace the sky; it reaches past the corpses of past seasons, past the clouds, to beg the sky for life… 

A leaf lies naked, still on the ground like a street child, its arms streaked with mud. Veins glow white upon the blood-coloured skin. Without a home, it shelters in the dirt day and night, huddled in the company of others that are blown its way. Though it has little strength left the stem, which still holds itself stubbornly straight. Washed halfway under the shelter of a small, more alive plant, it lies motionless, waiting for another gust of wind or water to carry it away again. 

 

I watch the drowned leaf, though it is motionless now. The veins fan out from the central stem, which juts up towards the clouds. Rain gathers in small bubbles on the plasticky skin, clear water intruded upon by specks of soil which muddy its purity. Some dirt has been washed into the crevices of the pale veins, wedged into place like beach sand that dries onto sun-warmed toes. Though leaves and light are muddied and fading, the scent of wet autumn is still warm and clings in the air, rich as chocolate drunk outside in the cold.