Brave New World

So, Libya. AM I RIGHT?!

I mean, holy fuck, this is an actual revolution happening half-way around the world. This is a textbook revolution with an overly-oppresive, egomaniacal tyrant who's unleashing five inch-long bullets on his people, whom he's deemed "backwards" and drug-addled. We don't know how many have died or what's happened to those who are missing. We don't know when Tripoli will fall or when Gaddafi will step down and/or be assassinated. I am at a loss as to how to even describe all of this completely insane shit in a single blog post. Or even multiple blog posts. I feel so dumb trying to encapsulate any of this with my ridiculous writing.

Oh jeez. I'm with you, Libya. Do your thang, I'm with you.

On Banksy, Word Art, and Texas

I'm in Texas! Also, I've given up on the lack of capitalization - I'm not e.e. cummings, and I can accept that.

So, before I launch into this whole thing on Banksy, a disclaimer: I am not nearly edgy enough or well-known enough to assume for a second that I can get away with sharing my opinion on Banksy and have it mean something. But, with that, here's my take on this thing: As you may or may not know, Banksy art (graf? art? who even cares?) has appeared in Westwood, LA, about three blocks from where I live and on the back of an Urban Outfitters (RIGHT?!). And because I basically go to school with a bunch of hipsters, this is a really big deal. I have, in my own time (WAY BEFORE YOU, duh) appreciated Banksy work and my favorite "piece" or whatever is the two male cops going at it (I do not feign to be deep or complicated - I've also included it for the like-minded readers out there).

I also enjoyed the subversiveness of his graf because who can claim they don't like punk rock dissent against globalization and consumerism? So, with all that in mind, I'm SURE you're wondering what my feelings are on this. And here it is: I'm glad Banksy has expanded into LA, because Angelinos could definitely use a dose of global issues (at least to say that we know there are some). I'm also extremely happy that it's on the back of an Urban Outfitters because this whole thing with the UO (same company as Free People and Anthropologie) trying to form a lawsuit against Banksy for vandalizing one of their stores is laughable - they've made so much money off his art work (with the wall decals and the shirts and the shit) that I'm pretty sure he's ousted Che as a t-shirt hero. So, bravo, Banksy, you cultured devil you. And, again, fuck the machine.

Oh, also, as a side note, the facebook group or whatever that's trying to petition to keep Banksy up just because it's Banksy - get the fuck over yourselves. Graffiti is temporary art meant to be subversive and destructive to the status quo. If it wasn't in danger of getting erased, it'd lose a good chunk of its power.

Moving right along, I'm having increasing difficulty reading writing (poetry, mostly) and finding value in it. My own work aside (since I'd be completely oblivious if I considered it any good), why is it that literature now just falls into constant exaggeration? Why is this considered at all acceptable? I've been sticking to tumblr as my source of poetry. Not ONLY the dumb little hipster, hyper-saturated photographs with song lyrics on top, but, like, the few comments people make here and there that I allow myself to misread and understand. Is this even allowed? Not art. Definitely not art. Just a sign that I need to go to bed at a proper time.

Finally, I guess, on Texas. I've literally been either traveling, sleeping, eating, or watching movies today with constant overlap between these activities. Texas makes me feel useless and I'm not sure if I like it because there's no guilt to it. On a happier note, there is so much Indian food being put in front of me with no hope of cessation. I contain multitudes (of curry, naan, and subjhi). More on this later (because, honestly, formatting those dumb pictures has taken more time than writing this post and I have dumb homework to get to).

Hustle and flow flow flow against the dying of this night.

i have a poem due in like 15 or so hours. well, it's not due due, like a homework assignment, but i have this reading thing that i said i'd be a part of happening tonight. i mean, it's not like they SPECIALLY REQUESTED me or some shit (that would've been rad, *sigh* i miss that part of high school) buuuuuuut, i'm doing it anyway?

it's supposed to be about alter-egos. and, of course, the only thing i could think about was comic books. for the longest time i was staring at this computer screen thinking about mystique and cyclops and the fact that jean grey had no awesome mutant name until she died and became the MOTHERFUCKING MARVEL PHOENIX. but, i mean, besides that she was pretty lame to me - so, you can probably see what my problem's been as far as writing goes. i mean, i have like a page and a half of slightly readable, but completely horrible, slam poetry, but my mind is firmly on x-men (first class looks like a hot mess) and this poem isn't going anywhere.

this post has no elegance to it, and look! it even has cussing. well, shit.

Hello, Again

it's been a long while since an update, and i wish i had a better excuse than having nothing to write. i've had loads to write, i guess, because i guess every writer has stuff they can talk about. i just never really think there's an audience for the things that go on in my mind or to me.

about 20 minutes ago i was reading a book of poetry (my index of slightly horrifying knowedge by paul guest, if you were interested) for my workshop. apparently english professors think that by reading poetry we can learn the theory behind poetry (and this honestly just sounds to me like a fifth year defense against the dark arts class with umbridge). they also believe, to my further surprise, that by mimicking poets we like we can develop our own voices and our own poetic styles - funny story, after sharing a poem in class (comic book genius, which i may post later) the professor asked what poets i was reading, i told him i didn't read poetry, i read comic books. whatever. anyway, what i wanted to get at, was during my reading i couldn't shake, kick, or impale the growing fear that this is all completely useless. i don't mean reading other poetry for the sake of learning poetry, i already have issue with that, but more like what makes a good poem? why is this classified as good poetry? i can see the writer using poetic devices like alliteration and anaphora because he's enjoying the flow of language but everything is bunched up and hogtied together in a somewhat awkward melée of diary-entry style poetry. i'm not sure i like it.

i think the main problem i have with it is that i'm supposed to hold it up as a model for publishable poetry but all i see is the poet doing the exact thing i do - haphazardly playing with poetic devices and pretty language without actually doing anything great with it. i maintain that in order to write a great poem, a writer has to, at once, embrace the poetic tradition she or he is emulating as well as rewrite it - there is no way to strike readers unless the words are unique and vital on their own and gift-wrapped in what's already been done to soften the blow. does that make any sense? it's 2:22 AM here and i will play the sleep deprivation card with this posting.

Blood&Bruises

These are some of the poems I'm submitting in my poetry workshop application. I'm posting them here because they're already public.

Blood & Bruises

I yearn for a skinned knee

Something to tell the world that I fell

That I am here now, after that fall

And not in some sort of pathetic “look, I got back on the horse”

Sorta thing

More to show that I lived

That I let myself fall

That I let my blood fall

And stain the cement

That I did not let myself get comfortable inside the shell of my body

of my room or my books or my friends or anything

That I intentionally broke myself to let some of myself go

Because it was holding me back anyway.

Blood & Bruises 2

Sex bruises are good bruises

Blood blossoming under the skin and under a violent kiss

Is a good thing

How else can we remember that something is inside us

Some sort of animal beast ripping to get out

If there is no darkening of the skin, aching at the touch,

Stabbing pain?

Bodies are soft soft things

And lust is hard and cruel and disciplining.

Sex bruises are best.

Blood & Bruises 3

My mother always told me not to scratch

At my scabs

Because scars, she said, are ugly things

And I will not tell you they are gorgeous

Not in any skewed definition or light

Are scars pretty, harmless things of beauty

But I love mine, and I stroke them soft and faded into my skin

Wounds burned and etched and weathered in

Between the particles of my body

So I scratch till they bleed again

And I stretch till they fall off and regain feeling

I want them forever, to adorn my body

With the pithy history of my falls and pains and moments of oblivion

For all the nights I never remembered, but which my clothes and head did

Do I keep these scars

So when I scratch and stretch can I feel

Them again.

i forgot

i forgot that i'm no longer capitalizing. sorry about that.

It's Not That I'm Going to Be Ok

It's that I am ok. There is currently nothing traumatic or life-altering or fantastic in my life at the moment. There never really was anything of the sort in my life ever. I've decided that I lead a pretty non-offensive and un-noteworthy life. As irreverential as I may be in real life, I'm not even a blip on someone's radar. But I'm ok with that, strangely enough.

I think it's in line with every nihilistic thought that has ever been crafted since the beginning of time, being alone and being unremarkable means I'm in control. And I'm in control without any real responsibility or obligation to anyone. This is freedom.