April is National Poetry Month

The new campaign for poetry awareness, "Woo or Woe on the Go", must be one of the most admirable initiatives I've seen in years (screw you, helpless pandas and illiterate children). Mobile poetry addresses the serious, but nonexistent problem of poetry's loss of popularity through the decades due to its tragic inaccessibility and inconvenience in modern life. "Woo or Woe on the Go" makes the irrrefutable statement that poetry is not simply a foolish catalogue of blather featuring whiny wooers and woeful wimps. Doesn't the title make that clear to you, dull prose readers, damn it?

The Book of Barnacles

Before heading to class last week, I remembered to stop at the bookstore to pick up a copy of the school's creative writing publication, which features the winners of last year's writing contest. A friend from last year's creative writing class asked me if I received a rejection email from the judging committee (we were all required to submit a story for the contest). I said no, I didn't get a rejection note, and figured perhaps my precious story about pony girl Joanne had made it into the final rounds. My eyes hurried up and down the index, anticipating the glorious moment where they would stop at the name Sylvia. When I saw the name Susan and a different story published, I knew it was a mistake.

I decided to write to my former creative writing instructor, who oversaw the contest.

Dear Mr. H,

Please know that I shed no tears as I formulate this letter to discuss my lack of mention in the campus publication. I believe that it was an oversight by your committee, excluding me in the publication. My exclusion in your publication is like an aquarium without the cool shark. No, it is like an aquarium with nothing but barnacles in it.

I have reviewed the work of this "Susan" chosen for publication, and I feel that your committee has made a mistake of planet-sized proportions. Again, my name is Sylvia, and my story is far, far more entertaining than the one you decided to publish. I mean, how many stories about visiting grandparents in nursing homes can we bear? Wouldn't the student body prefer a story about a girl who lost a friend by sitting on the friend's cat? What's done is done, I suppose. It would be too expensive to recall all the publications and correctly feature my story in place of Susan's.

Perhaps you'll know who's the better writer next year, when you actually read all the entries. In the meantime, may we all marvel at the awesome barnacle chosen for publication instead of me.

No hard feelings.

Sylvia

The Tender Lives of Shrimp

This morning a new feeling woke with me. It was Inspiration, for it stung my heart and raced through my veins (leaving, oddly, my brain completely unaffected).

Inspiration told me to start writing: Hell, Sylvia, start with children, the bottom of the totem pole, if you need to. Just start writing! For a moment I disagreed with its suggestion that chidren were easy to write for, but I urged myself to be prudent, to follow instructions from this supreme being, however out of touch with reality it is, what with its own laurel-laced lifestyle.

With Inspiration behind me, nagging me toward creative expression, I will write a medium-length book for attentive and well-behaved children. The book will be called The Tender Lives of Shrimp. Countless and nameless shrimp will be featured in colorful illustrations throughout the book, following my narrative about the brave disinterest which the shrimp possess, especially in the know-it-all face of Inspiration. They have eyes, but they refuse to see much.

My first story is due tomorrow...

and I have nothing.

http://www.mcsweeneys.net/links/lists/21RobertHinderliter.html

Fantastical Deer Dream

Last night I dreamt of tiny white tailed deer that sprouted from the ground. My dog, the brave husky, pounced on them. I got nervous. I almost barfed. Actually, I did, and all the deer scattered. My dog turned into a deer and ran off as well. I am the lonely barfer with nothing to write about today.

I'm a big kid now! (That is, I wear underwear-like diapers.)

Thanks to the Write Source, my creative juices flow like mad rhymes! I am now writing at the Grades 4-5 level:

A special secret place: Last year when I was still in the 3^rd grade, none of the kids believed that trolls lived down by the creek behind my house. The kids came over to prove me wrong. On the way home, I showed them the scratches on my arm, proving to them that the nasty trolls were indeed alive and living in proximity to my bedroom. A few kids, like Joanne the pony-cat killer, got scared and headed straight home with tears in their eyes. The curious and the brave stayed with me. We got to my house, dropped down our knapsacks and entered the gate to my backyard. A few kids hushed the noisy ones. I said, “Eh, trolls don’t care about noise,” and led them to the creek. When we got to the creek, the kids bunched together, their eyes darting every which way, fearing that a troll would attack from behind. We stood out there for a long time, and no one saw any trolls. The kids left and I felt like such a sham. That evening, I sulked at the dinner table. My mom said, “What’s wrong, Sylvia? Don’t you like your elk steak?” I said, “It’s fine. The kids came over. They didn’t believe that trolls live in the back.” My mom put her hand on my shoulder and said, “I’m sorry, Sylvia, the trolls hurt a baby and were forced to move out of the neighborhood. It’s good for all of us, Sylvia. You’ll learn to accept this in time.”

Doing homework: When I’m supposed to be doing homework, I start to think about what outfit I’ll wear the next day. What can I wear without people saying I’m a skank? What can I wear without people saying look stupid? What can I wear without people teasing me, saying I still listen to Michael Jackson? Definitely not my Beat It t-shirt with an iron-on Michael Jackson and his pelvis-to-the-camera pose.

When I was upside down: When I was upside down, I wasn’t on the monkey bars. I was in the zoo, in the monkey exhibit, participating in a human-monkey integration program. I walked out when the monkeys started to sling their poop at each other. I’d rather play Crossfire…THE BOARDGAME.

A song that means a lot to me: Nothing gets me going more than that song that starts, “Blinded by the light. Revved up like a deuce. Another runner in the night.” What is the song about? Anyone know?

My most embarrassing moment: I was sick and tired of the mean kids making fun of me for being so quiet in school. One day, to win over these asswipes and gain their friendship, I targeted another quiet kid in my class. I announced to the rest of the students that this girl fell on her ass playing hopscotch during recess. If only I’d noticed who she was playing hopscotch with while I was sitting by myself on the other side of the yard. Turns out she was the leader of the mean kids, so I got my sewn-on jean pockets ripped off after school.

Talk about being scared!: For Halloween, I went out as Strawberry Shortcake, the girl with the cute red hair and freckles. When I turned the corner on 5^th Street, the leader of the mean kids thought I was publicly mocking her, so I got my Strawberry Shortcake mask dented—a lot.

A terrible storm: A terrible storm brewed in the eyes of my teacher after I told her I wasn’t following her math lesson…for the ninth time. Even though I was sincere, she felt I was disruptive and formed a storm in her eyes. Then she cried like torrential rain.

This school really needs . . .to stop using beige paint. The color is so unappetizing that I end up skipping lunch most days. Then I get sent to the nurse’s office because they think I’m sick. More beige. I get so depressed in the nurse’s office that the nurse brings in this woman to talk to me. I cheer up and tell her about caterpillars turning into butterflies. She thinks she has cured me, but it was really her uplifting chartreuse dress that made me excited about school and learning and participating with teacher-types. Was she a teacher? I don’t know, but she should be.

Grade 2: More Writing Topics to Test

Thanks to the Write Source website, my creative juices flow like spilled milk over which I will not cry because I am stoic! Allow me to test some of their Grade 2 topics:

My new friend: I met my new friend Patty while we were washing our hands in the classroom sink with that hard grainy pink and white soap. I remarked at how disgusting her fingernails were and asked if she was accustomed to eating with those fingernails. Patty told me to mind my own fucking business and asked if I was done with the sink yet, because my fat ass was taking up a lot of space. She’s not really my friend. I don’t ask bitches to be my friends.

How to make new friends: I’ve found that to successfully make new friends, you have to keep your opinions to yourself, wash your hands at the speed of light, and have a small ass. Patty, you’re a bitch.

Something funny that happened to me: Long ago, and oh so far away…

What I like about math: I don’t like a goddamn thing about math. This writing topic sucks! What do I like about math? What do I like about math?! What do I like about having a nervous breakdown and being sent to the nurse's office before a math final? Not a goddamn thing, my friend!

Testing Writing Topics

Thanks to the Write Source website, my creative juices flow like blood from a serious head injury! Allow me to test some of their Grade 1 topics:

A special birthday: When I was seven I told my parents I wanted a pony for my birthday, but I'd never seen a pony in my life. I was a little girl with no originality: my classmates all wanted ponies, so I thought, What the hell, give me a pony. On the day of my birthday, my parents got me a grey cat and called it a pony. I believed it to be a pony and told all my classmates that I did in fact get a pony for my birthday. All the little girls in my class wanted to come see my pony, so one Saturday I had a pony party. I put a saddle on my grey cat and Classmate Joanne crushed my cat to death with her sorry ass. I regretted making such a big deal about my pony-cat.

Friendly places: The Gap is a friendly place. The workers always greet me even though I rush past them to the clearance section. No one seems to judge me for shopping in the bargain section. No one.

I'd like to see...: Yes, after seeing a lot of things in life, I'd really like to keep seeing. Going blind now wouldn't be easy.

The biggest thing I ever saw: *sigh*

Picnic fun I like to make . . .: I like to crack open a huge watermelon and watch the scout ants come. Then I take three or four of them hostage and see what I can negotiate with the queen ant. An hour later, the entire colony will band together and haul out an entire sheet cake in tiny crumbs and lumps from within their intricate lair in order to get their scout ants back. Ant picnics are fun for me.

What if toys could talk? If toys could talk, Pixar would make a hell of a lot of money.

I rode on a . . .: I rode on a wild reindeer and crashed into a tree. I don't celebrate the story of Santa anymore.

The English Major Writes: An Essay on "Come Sail Away" by Styx

Come Sail Away by this band Styx is a mantra about a guy’s first time sailing a majestic cruise liner across the perilous oceanic expanse. The main idea is that this cruise liner is figurative. In other words, the boat is all in the guy’s head. Another important main idea is that our protagonist undergoes all these adventures before he renounces his everyman religion to join an angelic cult.

As I stated in the introduction, the cruise liner is figurative. The way we know that is by investigating the impossible feasibility of the lines. He, the speaker, goes, “I’m sailing away.” And more importantly he goes:

Set an open course for the virgin sea
For I've got to be free
Free to face the life that's ahead of me
On board I'm the captain
So climb aboard
We'll search for tomorrow
On every shore
And I'll try, oh Lord, I'll try
To carry on
I look to the sea
Reflections in the waves spark my memory
Some happy, some sad
I think of childhood friends
And the dreams we had
We lived happily forever
So the story goes
But somehow we missed out
On the pot of gold
But we'll try best that we can to carry on
A gathering of angels appeared above our heads
They sang to us this song of hope and this is what they said
Come sail away
Come sail away
Come sail away with me
I thought that they were angels
But to my surprise
We climbed aboard their starship
And headed for the skies.

As evident, the whole thing is figurative because none of this can be possible. Also, we don’t know who he’s talking to when he beckons someone (who? me? you? us?) to climb aboard, as he is the captain, the skipper of the boat-a-rockin’. The fact that we don’t know who he’s talking to makes us come to no other conclusion than that the boat would sink if you tried to sail it. In other words, it is figurative. The speaker, or, more precisely, the singer also talks about reflections in the waves that spark his memory. It is a known fact that it is impossible for waves to reflect memories, especially because waves move really fast and no one can dictate Mother Nature’s speed. Again, figurative language infiltrating the piece.

Now that we’ve established that the piece is not literal, we can explicate the epic journey condensed in the lyrical piece. First he announces that he is sailing away and says his course is “open,” implying he is not bound by the constrictions of nautical charts, which in turn implies that his sea is indeed “virgin” because no other nautical explorers have “hit it” yet. He is optimistic about his journey, saying that he will “search for tomorrow on every shore,” which is the most poetic line of the whole work, because you can’t really see “tomorrow” as a thing you can spot on the shore with your telescope. No, you have to dream it.

Mystery unraveled. It isn’t until a few lines later that we realize who he’s asking to climb aboard and search for tomorrow: it is Jesus, for God’s sake. So he talks about how he grew up with Jesus and the other kids and had good and bad times. Suddenly, he realizes he missed the pot of gold, which shifts our attention from Jesus to leprechauns galore. Since a lot is lost through oral storytelling tradition, we will never know of the bloody battle of the sailor and the leprechauns, but we do see some deus ex machina in action: angels come to the rescue. We can surely assume that the speaker lost his faith in holiness and shunned the angels, because in the end, he renounces his everyman religion to ascend to a starship, which, by the way, is an underlying message by Styx to say that traveling by boat is out and that the Here and Now is the modern, industrialized society, where we can all travel by plane and retain our spirituality. The cult of modernity is too strong to deny.

Anniversary Post

A year ago today, Mediocrity was. And Mediocrity was the light in the basement of my water-damaged life. Like a soft-spoken miracle, Mediocrity began to prosper like some well-nourished philodendron, tendrils of tolerability clinging and expanding across the web of the wide world. Blessed with Mediocrity, I was never a bad writer, and that was safe. Then came the people, the blog readers, bitching, whining, and feeling sorry for me whenever I was having a bad month or three, despite that which my blog explicitly claims: mediocrity is safe. And you all wonder why I curse so much. For misty watercolor memories, see below:

• August 2004: I wish I were Snow White, so them twelve elves could clean my pad, but I ain't.
• September 2004: Check me and me and me out.
• October 2004: Mediocrity for life!
• January 2005: Asian at work.
• March 2005: Children love me.
• April 2005: Something for the haters.
• May 2005: It's hard work--it's not easy!
• July 2005: A heartfelt letter to my readers, expressing how I wouldn't be here if it weren't for them, but thanks first and foremost to the dear Lord almighty, for allowing me to cross paths with Ginuwine at LAX in the winter of 2001.

Corndog was an animal.

This post is going to suck, too, but since you all read this for free, I, with no writerly integrity, will continue to post whatever I want until I regain a wit so biting it leaves a mark prominent enough to make your momma ask who's been pickin' on you. And when she tries to cheer you up with a buttery warm grilled cheese sandwich, I'll be there to mouth it down myself--but not before I wedge your pet hamster Corndog between each toasty, cheesy flap of bread.

If you were offended by the tale of Corndog, then you obviously didn't visit this blog to lap up my saucy prose. You came for the Nudy.

I warn you: Don't waste your time with this.

The less I have to do with life, the less I am vexed by it, thus my very goal to blog something with more than two lines to it is completely frustrated. This is line number two, and you are hoping it's a good one, because, if I didn't have a knack for making really long, yet fairly well punctuated sentences, this second sentence would not be offering you these rather uninteresting words to read right now, and you would know nothing of the natural anticipation that exists completely apart from the oft scripted realm of reality television, wherein tonight pure-hearted American Idol contestant, Carrie Underwood, preaches about people gettin' what's comin' to 'em on Independence Day in a clap along with me now! ditty that confuses the hell fiery wrath of the Old Testament God with a bunch of people who, hey, just want to light up a few sparklers for a good time.

Let God be the judge of this!

My mailbox has nearly exceeded capacity, what with all your heavy complaints about my new "favorites" line of posts. Lame? Lame, rather, are your benumbed senses! Do you fail to see poetry when it appears before you, naked and proud, urging you to awaken from the spoiled language of superfluity? You live in a world of black and white. I have chosen to color my world with tan.

Completely Pointless Point

By the way, I hate unwitty oxymorons, but this is an unwitty post, so maybe it's appropriate. Gee, how excitingly ironic. And how blandly sarcastic. Anyway...

When I was about 12 years old, I joined some extended family on a walk down Hollywood Boulevard. One of the kids begged his mother to get him a souvenir. He was obviously illiterate at the time, because he was whining over a cheap t-shirt that read Eat Shit and Die. Well, my dog ate shit once and was promptly reprimanded. A few months later she found more shit to eat and ate shit again, but she didn't die. Eat shit and die...what a useless threat. It's not even true.

Belaboring a Labored Point

So, I guess I'm going to jail. Copyright infringement. Copied everything from this "Sylvia" in Minneapolis. She said she was a regular reader of my blog, but never expressed any opposition to my "borrowing" habits. Then on November 1st, she freaked out and said she had writer's blocks--yes, plural--and they'd multipied to such a great number that she constructed a mighty stairway, believing it would take her to a special place. When she got to the top, God said to her, "What are you doing? You were supposed to build a generous home for the homeless or something noble like that. Instead you built a useless stairway. What for?" Sylvia stated humbly, "To see you, God. To see you." God was a bit turned off by her answer. He said it was too "ABC Afterschool Special" for his taste and asked to be unsubscribed from her blog. And that's when Sylvia flipped out and threatened to sue me. But I think she was just frustrated because of the whole misunderstanding with God about the writer's blocks--I'm sure it was a bit embarrassing. I told her we've all had writer's blocks. We're just not as constructive as she is with them. Get it? Get it? Constructive?

As I said, writer's blocks.

Holey Conjecture!

After repeated postings that portray the author as a perturbed pit of cynicism, readers might conclude that the author is indeed hopelessly bitter. These personality judgers will one day sit on a stump of shame-ridden despair when they realize how wrong they were about me and how many feelings, albeit all mine, they'd needlessly hurt. I have no plans to be overtaken by scorn, but I've invested too much in this blog--I will not change course now!

A Couple of Bitches Talking in Front of the House

Today my neighbor (we'll protect his identity by calling him Chipotle--it's a popular one these days) and I stood in the parking lot, our arms crossed, catching up on things. Besides the name I just gave my neighbor, there's nothing exciting about this entry. Why are you still reading? Oh, it must have been the promising title. I am one of the two bitches mentioned in it. Something to take from this: A couple means two. Please resort to a few or some or several when you are referring to more than a friggin' couple. So yes, I am one of the two bitches, aren't I?

The Blog of my Life

Bloggers like to reveal their geographic residencies, perhaps to attract readers curious about the lifestyles of certain places. I should reveal, at the onset of this blog, I'd hoped to offer, especially to my friends in CA, some insight into my life in the Twin Cities. The idea was dismissed as soon as I realized how much more fulfilling it was to give two-minute tours of my inner geography--a place that embraces minorities, grows only organic vegetables with a white guy playing bongos nearby, and boasts a population count of an unfettered one. I suppose, though, I should not hide behind crass metaphors and admit that I blog about myself.

I ask earnestly, though, is that so bad? I thank you, beloved readers, for visiting this small town of a blog, but are you ashamed to admit the joy you get from this heavily self-centered blog? Am I a dirty little secret?

I'd always wanted to be a dirty secret, but never, NEVER when it came to the seriousness of blogging.

The Necessary Sylvia

Attention friends of past and present times: Please seek updates about me on this here blog, for I have forgotten how to communicate with you on an interpersonal level. It was by a process of elimination that I decided to adopt a single, theatrically candid voice--that is, I have eliminated the unnecessary voices of Sylvia to present to you the Necessary Sylvia.

The author would like to interject at this point, cautioning the Necessary Sylvia that an egotist with nothing to offer is quickly dismissed. The author would also like to stress to the Necessary Sylvia that the author wants very much to continue living and humbly suggests that the Necessary Sylvia works on keeping all the friends the Necessary Sylvia has already acquired.

That whole thing was totally unnecessary, and I've completely wasted your time. Can we still be friends forever?

Mediocrity: Nothing to Write Home About

I wrote home about my accomplishments, and no one commented, so I wrote about my mediocre life, and everyone wanted to have coffee with me. A month later, I started to notice how popular scrapbook making (or as the lazies call it, scrapbooking, as if lawn mowing could be called lawn mowering) had become, so I started my own Mediocre Moments scrapbook. I was relieved that it was just a scrapbook, because scraps were all I was willing to offer. A former professor was trying to be encouraging when I snorted, "Did you think I'd write a novel? C'mon! Like I have that kind of aptitude!" She grimaced--it was the face that encapsulated that day's activities, so there it is today, as I've precisely doodled it, on page 31. I keep up with this scrapbook because it's easy to do. I don't have to "dig deep" for material. One day, I glued a leaf on it. It wasn't an extraordinary leaf, as you might have guessed. It was just something I yanked off the shrub in front of the house.