"Garfield" By: Jim Davis 8/16/1987
On a bus
Woman: "Is this seat taken?"
Jon Arbuckle: "Not at all."
Woman: "Wow! That's a bug cat! He didn't look that big from the front of the bus 'cause things look smaller from far away."
Woman: "Yup, if he had a mane he'd look just like a lion. But, then they'd make him get off at the zoo, I suppose!"
Woman: "Zoos make me nervous. I'm never sure which side of the bars I'm on. I wonder if animals feel that way at too?"
Woman: "Well, I gotta change seats. You guys talk too much. I can't hear myself think!"
Jon: "You sure meet some characters on the bus."
Man: "Watch what you say! Uranus has spies everywhere!"
My Dialog:
Cory: "Is time proportional to the number of material things bought, the number of cats pet, the number of words read, number of female hairs stroked in whimsical hours, or the number of tears, which have fallen in vain?"
God: "I guess you'll find out in time young one of my creation."
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Second Short Story from Class Prompt
Helliam
Don’t look at them straight in the eyes or at the saliva and mucus they spew all over the sidewalks. Don’t look at their red, watery-eyed faces brewed in hours of smoking marijuana with their “hot-boxed” demons in their carbon fiber-modified Honda Civics before “class.” Don’t expect much besides a barbaric f-word dialect and mutual stupidity. Expect the police officers to be listening to obscenity-filled, de-educating rap music while on the “patrol” for analogous sorts of criminals. Don’t expect the Bursar’s Office to be doing anything besides masturbating behind their desks before you come for an answer to a question they will show no insight or foreknowledge of. Expect your professors to speak a foreign language and all the students to be making calls while in class on cell phones they cannot afford. This is a preparation for Hell, i.e. living in Haledon or humorously named ”Prospect Park,” you juvenile delinquent. This is how you wait to die. This is much worse than non-existence. This is friendless and lonely. You are only selfish and spoiled. Listening to the miserable humans is the only way to succeed though you are so bent upon becoming a failure with that selfish attitude. This is how you make coffee. This is how you set an alarm to actually wake up for nothing worthwhile. This is how you roll a blunt. This is how you trick humans into giving you their money with the least toiling entailed. This is how you write passive aggressive letters to your billers. This is how you get no response to anything you do. This is how you become an indentured servant. This is how you nod your head in hatred. Don’t throw stones at Paterson natives; they are toolmakers, too. Likely, they are of a Brass Age intellect with all considerations made. This is how you talk to belligerents; but what if they don’t let me talk to them? You might as well not even try to begin with.
Don’t look at them straight in the eyes or at the saliva and mucus they spew all over the sidewalks. Don’t look at their red, watery-eyed faces brewed in hours of smoking marijuana with their “hot-boxed” demons in their carbon fiber-modified Honda Civics before “class.” Don’t expect much besides a barbaric f-word dialect and mutual stupidity. Expect the police officers to be listening to obscenity-filled, de-educating rap music while on the “patrol” for analogous sorts of criminals. Don’t expect the Bursar’s Office to be doing anything besides masturbating behind their desks before you come for an answer to a question they will show no insight or foreknowledge of. Expect your professors to speak a foreign language and all the students to be making calls while in class on cell phones they cannot afford. This is a preparation for Hell, i.e. living in Haledon or humorously named ”Prospect Park,” you juvenile delinquent. This is how you wait to die. This is much worse than non-existence. This is friendless and lonely. You are only selfish and spoiled. Listening to the miserable humans is the only way to succeed though you are so bent upon becoming a failure with that selfish attitude. This is how you make coffee. This is how you set an alarm to actually wake up for nothing worthwhile. This is how you roll a blunt. This is how you trick humans into giving you their money with the least toiling entailed. This is how you write passive aggressive letters to your billers. This is how you get no response to anything you do. This is how you become an indentured servant. This is how you nod your head in hatred. Don’t throw stones at Paterson natives; they are toolmakers, too. Likely, they are of a Brass Age intellect with all considerations made. This is how you talk to belligerents; but what if they don’t let me talk to them? You might as well not even try to begin with.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Chapter SIx: Conjunctions and Coordination Sentences
Sentences:
(1) The Egyptians were meticulous record keepers; Edgar Cayce told me in a past life.
(2) The coffee was cold, liquid, bland, and lonely, and yet we all have our inequities in life.
(1) The Egyptians were meticulous record keepers; Edgar Cayce told me in a past life.
(2) The coffee was cold, liquid, bland, and lonely, and yet we all have our inequities in life.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
My Catholic Upbringing Revisted in Mind
I was a child once. I used to carry my backpack to school and get no charity from the nuns. They just cursed at me in Latin and raped my intellect in the corridor of youth. They knew I was the only Protestant girl in my class of 40. I guess it was like I had handed them the 95 theses for homework. Yet, I still wore the crucifixion around my neck. Plagued by the curtain of Catholicism, I was sure I wouldn’t take the easy way out. One day it ought to get better and you can go via one of two roads in life, some say. I wanted to choose a road of gratitude towards God. I was a child of Him once too.
The walls said, “bring your creativity under Catholicism.” They always liked their bigoted motivational posters hanging on the walls of time. They always liked to call me Puella Ignorare. As if, because I had esteemed God without works, I was not an inheritor of His Grace. However, God knew they were misled by the Saints. Each day I would be beaten like Christ metaphorically and by rulers. “You’ve pronounced your words wrong again, you young, vulgar, disinherited one of His Kingdom. When Kingdom Comes, thy will be done as in Heaven as it is on Earth.”
“I’ll write my name in the blood of Mother Mary, for the profit of His Grace” I said. “I promised I’m saved! I asked Christ.”
"adversus bonos mores huius civitatis!”
Still, she beat my nude buttocks as the Romans would have smiled upon. The children all giggled like well-indoctrinated demons, “She’ll…rot in Hell…rot in Hell…rot in Hell…rot in Hell…rot in Hell…rot in Hell…rot in Hell!”
Then a boy began speaking in tongues, “clam ver ati smug long clam bra smung loin quam drumg gnomb lum quan bra smug smug loff twun crumb,” all the while slapping his circumcised penis against his belly like an invader from Gaul. Still, others just made crosses with their hands against their body (to be more conventional).
“I am actually a Calvinist, not a Protestant.”
“Onvicium adversus bonos mores!”
“Burn the witch!” They droned in unison…
The walls said, “bring your creativity under Catholicism.” They always liked their bigoted motivational posters hanging on the walls of time. They always liked to call me Puella Ignorare. As if, because I had esteemed God without works, I was not an inheritor of His Grace. However, God knew they were misled by the Saints. Each day I would be beaten like Christ metaphorically and by rulers. “You’ve pronounced your words wrong again, you young, vulgar, disinherited one of His Kingdom. When Kingdom Comes, thy will be done as in Heaven as it is on Earth.”
“I’ll write my name in the blood of Mother Mary, for the profit of His Grace” I said. “I promised I’m saved! I asked Christ.”
"adversus bonos mores huius civitatis!”
Still, she beat my nude buttocks as the Romans would have smiled upon. The children all giggled like well-indoctrinated demons, “She’ll…rot in Hell…rot in Hell…rot in Hell…rot in Hell…rot in Hell…rot in Hell…rot in Hell!”
Then a boy began speaking in tongues, “clam ver ati smug long clam bra smung loin quam drumg gnomb lum quan bra smug smug loff twun crumb,” all the while slapping his circumcised penis against his belly like an invader from Gaul. Still, others just made crosses with their hands against their body (to be more conventional).
“I am actually a Calvinist, not a Protestant.”
“Onvicium adversus bonos mores!”
“Burn the witch!” They droned in unison…
Adverbs and Adjectives Post
Two Sentences: I added a third for fun
(1) Quickly and without reserve I raced to the pungent Israeli tomb and raised the lovable Lazarus from the eternal death.
(2) I told the regularly awful human, Jesus Rico not to whip out his violet-colored portable Nintendo DS in class as it would remain disrespectful to the conversely-speaking, uneasily perturbed Professor Quinlan; it was like trying to communicate to an animal.
(3) I realized that imperialistic Rome did not particularly bare a wonderful tongue in Latin and yet their influence was wide spread do to the pragmatism and infrastructure of war they created, spreading their ideals of glory and power with the individual's materialistic gain; in this case the individual was Caesar.
(1) Quickly and without reserve I raced to the pungent Israeli tomb and raised the lovable Lazarus from the eternal death.
(2) I told the regularly awful human, Jesus Rico not to whip out his violet-colored portable Nintendo DS in class as it would remain disrespectful to the conversely-speaking, uneasily perturbed Professor Quinlan; it was like trying to communicate to an animal.
(3) I realized that imperialistic Rome did not particularly bare a wonderful tongue in Latin and yet their influence was wide spread do to the pragmatism and infrastructure of war they created, spreading their ideals of glory and power with the individual's materialistic gain; in this case the individual was Caesar.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Stories
Five Stories Told:
(1) Told Mother we're all in Hell
(2) Told Kristin about roommates
(3) Told Grandmother to cook the her dog into a cheesecake
(4) Told Father about roommate who got caught by police "drinking while driving"
(5) Told Bobby about God
Five Stories I want to tell:
(1) Story of PCP user who peeled of his face with a razor and feed the pieces to his two dogs
(2) Story of Civilized Cats in Denville
(3) Green Society of the future
(4) George W. Bush for Third Term
(5) Breast Massages on Long Beach, CA
(1) Told Mother we're all in Hell
(2) Told Kristin about roommates
(3) Told Grandmother to cook the her dog into a cheesecake
(4) Told Father about roommate who got caught by police "drinking while driving"
(5) Told Bobby about God
Five Stories I want to tell:
(1) Story of PCP user who peeled of his face with a razor and feed the pieces to his two dogs
(2) Story of Civilized Cats in Denville
(3) Green Society of the future
(4) George W. Bush for Third Term
(5) Breast Massages on Long Beach, CA
Prose Poem (#4)
I Awoke in My Car
Today I awoke in my car; it just gets worse each day.
I isolate myself from this reality as they more or less are cigarette smokers, alcoholics, marijuana smokers, and heroin users. I saw a policeman listening to rap in his police car while he was on duty. What else should I expect? Police officers are just in a business. There's no safety about them. Antagonistic personalities tend to aim towards that goal in life. They pull you over for nothing and I stay quiet because I am afraid of their prevailing weapon. Licensed to kill and write you tickets to the state's benefit. A police officer shot and killed a student in my graduating class in Denville, NJ.
Anyway, I guess the homeless sleep in their cars, but I feel sanctified nonetheless. I cannot wake up anymore for anything.
She tells me to wake up, "Find what you want to do and then do it."
What about the money? I am not that divine anymore. I don't feel useful at all. Please stay away from me you awful humans. Go spend your money to die. Go spend your money at the mall. Go do something cliche.
I'm not really here. I can't be alive. I can't really be who I am. Maybe I'm already dead?
I woke up in my car, nude.
Today I awoke in my car; it just gets worse each day.
I isolate myself from this reality as they more or less are cigarette smokers, alcoholics, marijuana smokers, and heroin users. I saw a policeman listening to rap in his police car while he was on duty. What else should I expect? Police officers are just in a business. There's no safety about them. Antagonistic personalities tend to aim towards that goal in life. They pull you over for nothing and I stay quiet because I am afraid of their prevailing weapon. Licensed to kill and write you tickets to the state's benefit. A police officer shot and killed a student in my graduating class in Denville, NJ.
Anyway, I guess the homeless sleep in their cars, but I feel sanctified nonetheless. I cannot wake up anymore for anything.
She tells me to wake up, "Find what you want to do and then do it."
What about the money? I am not that divine anymore. I don't feel useful at all. Please stay away from me you awful humans. Go spend your money to die. Go spend your money at the mall. Go do something cliche.
I'm not really here. I can't be alive. I can't really be who I am. Maybe I'm already dead?
I woke up in my car, nude.
Prose Poem Post Second Attempt
"Be Drunk"
by Charles Baudelaire
Translated by Louis Simpson
You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it—it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.
But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.
And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16054
I don't really think drunkenness is a good idea anymore, however I suppose that is besides the point. More on topic, I am not sure that I have really mastered the theory of what a prose poem is. I know that this is one and from what I can find a prose poem is different from a regular poem in that it has punctuation and is written in sentences. It retains the stanza structure though. I feel like we read this in class. I'm really not sure. Hopefully, not.
by Charles Baudelaire
Translated by Louis Simpson
You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it—it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.
But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.
And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16054
I don't really think drunkenness is a good idea anymore, however I suppose that is besides the point. More on topic, I am not sure that I have really mastered the theory of what a prose poem is. I know that this is one and from what I can find a prose poem is different from a regular poem in that it has punctuation and is written in sentences. It retains the stanza structure though. I feel like we read this in class. I'm really not sure. Hopefully, not.
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