That Vitamin C Song (#30/30)

[Prompt for today: "30. That's All Folks: Write a poem where something (big or small) comes to an end." this is particularly fitting because I am going to be graduating this weekend and I wanted to write about how i'm feeling in the days before.] Blogging has taught me to let go of my perfectionism. These months of self-directed writing no deadlines save the ones i suggest to myself have taught me to just get it out finish it up write what you feel not what you think Graduation has taught me to let go when I thought I already had. Walking through the Diag to get tickets for commencement for the Big House for the end and there is a surprising lump in my throat I thought I was done thought I was ok but watching students walk my walk from months ago thinking i'll never walk that again not the same way and it scares me, this ending i'm afraid that i won't know how to begin again

APR - John Dies At The End

April review for the Eclectic Reader's Book Challenge 2013: John Dies At The End by David Wong, 2009. [Urban Fantasy category]

This book is difficult to review without giving everything away. It is not a typical book where I can start at the beginning and muddle through the middle but stop before giving away the ending: the title alone makes that impossible. A rising cult classic for sure, John Dies at the End by David Wong is a beast of its own class. David, both the protagonist and a pseudonym for Jason Pargin, senior editor at Cracked.com, invites us into a horror-comedy about two twenty-something fuck-ups who somehow stumble their way into being a sort of Ghostbuster/Clerks/Supernatural type of mash-up. A friend had suggested the book to me and made me watch the Coscarelli film (2011), which I thoroughly enjoyed, and since this friend doesn't read too much but raved about this particular volume, I decided to give it a shot. I'm not sure exactly what I expected going in, but it certainly wasn't that.

Needless to say, I heartily enjoyed it. The characters, while neither particularly heroic or even likable in the traditional sense of the word, are real, their thoughts raw and unpolished coming directly from David's internal POV. The storyline(s) are so far-fetched yet intriguing that we as readers desperately want to believe in them. The major thrust is that of a wrathful alien invasion of which most of the populace is unaware, but the book is broken up temporally by a frame story, one that involves Dave and a bumbling reporter meeting at a back-alley Chinese restaurant for Dave to convince said reporter of his story--and subsequently, his (relative) sanity. The reporter, Arnie Blondestone, acts on behalf of the reader, calling Dave on his inconsistencies and asking the very obvious questions, all the while sitting back in a state of half disbelief, half intrigue. Some reviewers have pointed to the books original status as web serials that might allow for the contradictions, and while I see that is a valid point, I also like to think that it's something Dave has woven in of his own accord. This is a book trying to show "actual, soul-sucking lunacy," as one reviewer said, and the mind of the lunatic we get is rife with the unimaginable; it is only logical that his brain might fail in the description of it.

That being said, some parts of the story are actually acknowledged as possibly ill-reported, mostly because they come secondhand from John, the other half of this monster-fighting duo. Though John claims the title and most of the spotlight, his story is still told through Dave's intimacy with the reader, his raw point of view. Dave sees himself as a sort of shadow of John, but in that humility lies an honesty that is both endearing and grounded, and while neither of the characters is particularly heroic or even likable in the traditional sense of the word, as David is quick to point out--but then, nothing about this book makes sense in the traditional sense of the word.

In any elaborate created world, there is always a "set piece," a sort of touchstone that defines the rules of the universe: the One Ring in Lord of the Rings, the TARDIS in Doctor Who, In this case, it is the Soy Sauce. It is almost sentient, and it seems to be an adequate metaphor for the story itself. Wong started publishing his story that would become John Dies serially online where it took on a cult force of its own and has eventually made it into the hands of horror-comedy filmmaker genius Dan Coscarelli, the mind responsible for works like Bubba Ho-Tep (2002)--you know, the one about Elvis in a senior home fighting demons. A certain brand of crazy has taken seed in this genre, a hyperabsurdity that breathes itself into every aspect of the story and makes it somehow more real, like Amy's phantom hand syndrome that can open the ghost door because neither of them is actually there.

The ghost door(s) is a good example of how John Dies fits under the umbrella of Urban Fantasy. Some parts of the internet define urban fantasy as "sub-genre of fantasy defined by its place...a prerequisite is it must take place in a city." The world of the boys' hometown, Undisclosed, is just enough like the reader's reality to make us comfortable, but with minor differences like the ghost doors and talking bratwursts. Also the fact that the differences are unseen by many--like typical fantasy--contributes more to the hyperabsurdity of the whole deal and the outsider's view of David's crumpling sanity. Because Dave keeps so much under his hat, changing things or only saying them in his head--like calling his hometown "Undisclosed" so much that it becomes a place in and of itself--he gives a power not only to his own world but to the world he is laying out for Arnie Blondestone. The "undisclosed" nature of Undisclosed. how it sort of circumvents the typical definition of "urban fantasy" by circumventing the typical definition of "city," and like many aspects of this book, therefore becomes more tantalizing.

I am severely looking forward to reading the sequel and keeping up with David Wong's future endeavors. The man is funny, and he makes me laugh in a way that I haven't experienced in a long time. Like this article on Cracked that includes not one, but two tongue-in-cheek, quasi-hysterical reviews of his very own book. But somehow, it doesn't make him seem like a huge tool.

some of my favorite (and more colorful) blurbs about John Dies At The End:

"John Dies at the End...[is] a case of the author trying to depict actual, soul-sucking lunacy, and succeeding with flying colors." --Fangoria

"Reads as if Bill Murray's world-weary Ghosbuster and sassy Buffy the Vampire Slayer spawned a slacker child--like Clerks with monsters. . . . Surprising, disturbing, and inventive." --Herald Sun (Australia)

other reviews I enjoyed:
"The Designer's Drugs" at Second Supper

Tweet tweet (#29/30)

[prompt was to write a poem in less than 140 characters, as if it were on twitter]

A bar is a strange place in the daytime.
The outside world invades with the 2pm sunbeams,
stabbing into your bubble,
not letting you forget.

Asparagus (#28/30)

[I made asparagus today for the first time in years, and it reminded me of this moment when my best friend and i were kids and her mom told us the secret to asparagus]

Sunday afternoon asparagus experiment

long green stalks with pinecone heads
on my plate
send me back.
me and maddie, the girl around the corner
best friends since birth
eating lunch with her mother,
purveyor of fart jokes and bodily wisdom
from all her years as a floater nurse.
we wouldn't touch the green stringy things
no way, they looked gross, no
we wanted candy.
not until she told us
The Secret.

"The funny thing about asparagus," Julia said,
"is that if you eat enough of it,
you pee green!"
She giggled as we turned to each other
eyes wide as our still-full plates
sucking in a breath for a beat before
diving into the icky greens before us,
all thoughts of sugary goodness banished
and in our infinite wisdom and knowledge
of the human digestive system,
we ran straight to the bathrooms
once we greedily slurped down our last conquered string
to watch the magic happen

after a few minutes,
we met back in the living room,
frowns as droopy as the twizzlers we'd been tricked out of eating
Julia laughed from her perch on the kitchen counter and told us
like any good magic,
this one comes
with waiting.

Motor City Nightmares (#27/30)

[Today I went to Motor City Nightmares, a horror convention in Novi, MI. I went to rep 3CC but I was also a bright-eyed first timer, soaking up all the horror I could get my hands on]

bright-eyed first-timer
twenty-two years of new experiences
and still my voice shakes as I wait in line.
Heather Langenkamp, the girl who taught me
you can kick ass even in embroidered pajamas
even when no one will listen to you
even when you can't see what's coming.

a newborn horror hound
still not sure if this is my scene.
when i was six years old,
my best friend tied me to a chair
and made me watch goosebumps.
i haven't let myself be scared since then.
the helplessness was something i hate
but Nancy taught me
that even when the world tells you you're helpless,
that there's nothing you can do because it's all in your head
you can still win.

nervous little promotional director
dutifully taking down contact info
still feeling myself into this world,
how it fits around me.
eventually my smile comes out
blooms like a sunrise that marks triumph over the shadows
and I forget the rest
arm wrestle Chris Hahn, even though his bicep is wider than my head,
pose with a shiny machete with Ari Lehman--don't give me that fake plastic ax--
die by the hands of the Horror Hotties in the photobooth, zombies with bikini bodies
stop hiding behind sixteen years of angst

bright-eyed first-timer
newborn horror hound
nervous little promotional director
I am coming into myself here.

Riot Prom (#26/30)

[Riot Prom was a party theme my friends and i made up, where we could "get dressed up in your Sunday best and we will do riot-y things that involve fire! Or something. Suggestions welcome."]

Riot Prom. Dress up, act grunge.
electric blue body dress, black combat boots.
red lipstick, black biker gloves.
Spike the riot punch--
the green one is more of a trip.
Firecrackers in the street
alarm bells in the window
take back this friday night

Sick Day (#25/30)

lying in bed all day
with a tickle in my throat
watching Veronica Mars reruns
I feel like a little kid again.

With no classes to skip,
no work scheduled,
I can let my eyes close again and again,
slip down into that warm cocoon

but with no parent to take care of me,
no one to remind me to go to bed--
even though I slept til 2--
no one to remind me to eat--
more than the two popsicles i had
to ease the itch that just won't cough out--
I have to get up
I have to buy groceries
do laundry
generally be a grown-ass woman.

Every once in a while,
however,
it's nice to pull the blankets over your head
and shut the world out for a day.

GlitterUs (#24/30)

[Last night was RC Senior Prom at Circus Bar. A bunch of seniors put it on and the theme was GlitterUs, so obviously we left with pounds of glitter all over us, and I have continued to find it eeeeeeverywhere]

finding glitter everywhere
the night after a dance
like shed skin
shining and small,
each identical little memory blossoming
into its own constellation of moments
ones that won't fade out
with just one wash

Procrastination (#23/30)

i sit legs crossed
in front of my computer
trying to write
but instead
repainting the fleurs-de-lis on my belt
with aruba blue nail polish
because this is a highly productive use of my time

Skies (#22/30)

waiting on the porch
in the shivery hours of an almost-springtime night
watching the april sky
there's a commercial airplane lazily wafting through the stars
blinking like a little red imposter

but below
there is something
a darker something lazily wafting through the stars
and i really really want it to be
a pterodactyl

Research Versus Action (#21/30)

Research Versus Action

i have a strange predilection for spreading myself too thin
just learning about the things i could do
instead of actually applying myself to them
but i'm trying

i have a strange predilection for entangling myself in what could be
tying strings of hope to a computer screen
instead of a person or a piece of paper
but I'm trying

i have a strange predilection for playing things out in my head
reading the rejection letter that never came
instead of taking a deep breath and hitting SEND
but i'm trying

i have a strange predilection for burying myself with words and websites
but i'm trying

Beauty Sleep (#20/30)

To the girl whose mother is explaining "beauty sleep" to her in the lobby of Jerusalem Garden

There is a cute little girl
in paisley leggings and a striped top
at that age where clothing clearly doesn't matter
it's just one more thing to do before she gets to
break outside in the sunlight

paisley turns to grass stains
stripes turn to lines on which to write
the lovingly skinned elbows of summer
dirt looks the same on any kind of kid

what do i want to say to you? that "beauty sleep" isn't gendered,
that beauty isn't gendered
but that your misunderstanding
gives me hope
and your questioning
gives me hope

Black pantyhose (#19/30)

If I were to say how
incredibly unsettling I think black pantyhose are
would that make me less of a girl?
Legs look shaded, faded,
shadows where your legs should be
not all of your body made it
off of the silver screen
i think they're so unsettling because they don't look
real

One Two Three (#18/30)

[18. One Two Three...creating a poem out of twelve adjectives! lets see if I can make my idea work. i sort of shifted them out of adjective form though...so that might be cheating... plush royal deep wise weathered resourceful safe warm free blank stunted internal]

a too-warm white room.
no windows, doors, or noise.
No outlet.
No exit.
Too safe.
Stunted, all thoughts internalized
chewed up until they are dry
and empty of wisdom.
just letters in a brain
without the spark to string them.
a magnetic bracelet without its charge
hanging limp
and discarded.

deep in the corner,
where shadows try to loom--
but even those are stifled, leaving nothing but
blank
space--
there grows a warmth.
move toward it, its royal back arching
its plush arms inviting
weathered by the imaginations it has taught to soar

you are resourceful
you will find a way out of that room
that blank
page
write your way free

Rain! (#17/30)

In which I take my first rainy run of the springtime

as soon as I heard the thunder, my hand reached
for my running shoes
almost like an involuntary tic.
It comes from years of monsoon craziness
from my childhood,
where my dad, my brother and I would sprint outside
at the first muted rumble,
God inviting us to play
in his chaos.

the sidewalk was dark,
soaked through to a different color by the raindrops
like a new sundress taken out for the warmer weather.
as my feet made the satisfying
wet crunch
down the hill,
i noticed my path was lined,
little crocuses peeking up along each side of the concrete
nodding with the rain,
clapping
welcoming me into spring

Coding (#16/30)

there are letters I know,
jumbled up in a language unfamiliar.
wading through pages of stylesheets,
picking up a line or two I recognize,
like driftwood in a tsunami
from a house I used to know.
I just have to wade a little farther
every day
pick up a few more sticks
every day
and hope that someday soon
I can build back that house

Boston (#15/30)

[This poem is in honor of those involved in the Boston Marathon explosions today. It is also to remind us that shit like this happens all the time, but the way our society works is that we don't know about them unless they're on tv or something. yes it's a tragedy, but it is also symbolic of a larger disease, not an isolated event. my heart goes out to those who experience pain like this every day, but don't have a nation behind them to hold them up.]

today, of all days, I have no
words.
the words are all used up
by the pundits
and the newscasters,
dried out
and twisted,
focusing on the blood and the hurt,
instead of the helpers, the ones running toward the pain.

today, of all days, my heart
hurts.
it hurts for the ones who died without a publicized soapbox
for their death to yell from.
the everyday silent scream of
hunger
and sickness
and lack.

today of all days, I remember
that days like today are more common
than we like to admit.

Blackout poem (#14/30)

[a blackout poem from an article about a play in Between The Lines. enjoy!]

intrigue
escaped
a multifaceted clash

in the sense of
the

low-cut Red Sox T-shirt.



It felt mighty familiar.

I am not a closet smoker (#13/30)

i am not a closet smoker

when i take five at work,
I sneak chapters instead of cigarettes.
I keep paper in my pocket and
a pen in my ponytail
to bum a phrase
instead of a light.

Roofers (#12/30)

Waking up to a thock thock thockthockthock racket
on a saturday morning,
my sleep-addled mind decided
the only two options for the source of the noise were
construction workers hammering on a roof or
a giant who was very bad at pogo stick-ing
outside my window.
it was roofers, but the child in me
wanted it to be
the latter.

How to begin (#11/30)

How to begin

Feeling one's feelings is not
as easy as it sounds--
especially for a writer.
It is all inside of you, just teach yourself
to get it out
let the bone fragments of your adolescence
break through the skin,
hold your heavy breath inside and
wait

wait

wait for a moment to rise to the surface
like the bubbles of a man overboard
that let his comrades know
he still has breath to give.
to share.

Not all inspiration is made of such waiting.
seduce the memories out of you
make them want to shine
make them want to comfort
someone other than just the secret corners
of your own body.
tattoos on your wrists of the
scars on your hearts
sing themselves into existence
if you let them.

Open a vein and bleed
onto the page, Vonnegut says,
but not all poetry is
self-mutilation.

Erasure (#10/30)

[today one of the prompts I found was to find a short poem and delete every fourth word and then make your own additions. The poem I chose is called "Why we ask you not to touch" by Charles Bernstein.]

Human emotions and jealousies

leave a projective toxin over the poems,

cursing them, difficult to save.

Careful readers maintain a fearful

distance from the fray in order

to frustrate distortion-free comprehension

and avoid battling the meaning.

naps (#9/30)

his arm draped over me
hand pressed to the contours of my ribs
as if he is trying to be what
holds me together

a mid-afternoon nap
stolen moments together
in the midst of the whirl of the
real world

I rein in my wandering thoughts,
pulling them back into my core
wrapping them around
this precious little embrace

focus hard on the moment
or I'll miss it
with thinking
like the hands on a clock aligning.

his arm draped over me
hand pressed to the contours of my ribs
because sometimes,
that is all I need.

My father's eyes (#8/30)

I have inherited my father's eyes
and his astronomically high self-standards.
I quietly push myself
far past the furthest measure
expecting knowledge to seep into me like a summer tan.
Plaster a smile on for the world
and say
hey, I just started
all the while saving the razor-sharp words
for an internal debate
between who you are
and the do-no-wrong person
you should be by now.

This transition in life
a chasm
there are no textbooks for where I go now
no required reading
no formulas.
A brave face is all I get
strong hands to remind me
to pull my chin up
and look ahead.
There's no syllabus here but the one I discover
I have to get my knowledge
however I can
using the eyes I inherited
from my father.

Mirrors (#7/30)

dancing in a mirrored room
the girl sees herself through
many different eyes.
Each wall a kaleidoscope of present, past and future
the fabric of her skirt and the bright of the lights
twisting into something unrecognizable
on each different wall

Lunch meetings (#6/30)

Business meetings are easy
when I can wear a power rangers tshirt
and my bosses sing songs about gummy bears.
At 22, I feel like the oldest one there
in my power rangers tshirt.

Look what I made (#5/30)

[Prompt #5: Look what I made! I just finished knitting a cardigan! I'm very proud of it. Pictures attached!]

Look what I made
this thing I created with my hands
thousands of stitches
and thousands of rows
twisted together to cover me.
Half yellow and half purple,
a line down the back separating the two halves
but a friendly line, like the handoff at a relay race
not an angry one, like a great Wall.

my face lights up when i can say
"Oh, I made this!"
and i blush like a kool-aid packet ripped open over water,
diffuse and ever-reaching
unused to being the recipient of such attention.

six buttons inch up from hips to waist
six, my favorite number,
the golden dots wrapping the two halves together
around me
this hug that i made
myself

Found poetry (#4/30)

[Today's prompt is found poetry, so I went around the cobwebby corners of the internet for some crazies whose language I could appropriate--namely, Missed Connections on Craigslist. Here are some of the tidbits I found and crafted into something resembling art. Also inspired by the "Safety Not Guaranteed" ad and subsequent 2012 film.]

From the angel driving the BMW
to the adorable beer maiden,
a traveling polymath seeks adventure companions.

Mr Blue Eyes reading poetry by a tree
your coat over a rail
we had a conversation about smoking and eyeglasses.

Folksy Lesbian seeking an enthralling young muse
we talked about Green Camaros and Green Goblins
you said he was an out of work superhero,
Simply Seeking Sidekick.

Transgender Princess looking for friends
lonely and maybe a little broken
adventures are better in pairs, you said
Just remember C918
and the stoplight on 103rd street
You know I know what I'm doing.

there are two sides to every story and the truth
slides up the middle.
i'm looking for the one
out of sync

could it be you

On the couch (#3/30)

[Poem #3. Two different prompts were incorporated here, one was "on the couch" and another was to write a poem for someone and share it with them. so here goes. nowhere near done, nowhere near satisfying.]

On that beat-up paisley couch,
shoulder to shoulder we sit,
armed each with a High Life and a sharp tongue,
we watch as Korean Hansel and Gretel take on
witches and boarding school.

On that beat-up paisley couch,
we live, breathe and yell at the movies
no one else will watch--
Nic Cage is our Hall of Fame
and The Asylum is our Oscars

On that beat-up paisley couch
around the twelfth straight episode of Supernatural we watched in one sitting
only taking breaks for thai food and beer refills,
I've changed your label
from "my boyfriend's best friend" to simply
"my friend."

Ink stains (#2/30)

[a prompt I found today was to write a quick poem without lifting your hand from the page and the title of the prompt was "ink stains" which morphed into this little metaphor here.]

writing quickly, the blue ink stains my fingers
like a murder just committed.
except this isn't murder
it is (re)birth.

April is NaPoWriMo! (#1/30)

So here we are again. April is National Poetry Writing Month, or NaPoWriMo, or 30/30, for those in the know. Last year I managed to get all the way through with only a few unpublished days--which I made up for in time--and it's time to do it again. I haven't written that much poetry in a while, so this should be fun.

#1/30:
FOUND: a happy list from Feb 6, 2011:
charity balls
dancing non-sexually with a cute boy
good night kisses
crooked smiles
blue dresses that make me sort of look like Cinderella

REMEMBERED: the night I fell for that cute boy and his crooked smile.
catching his eye and holding it while we danced
dancing to every song and collapsing into each other as the lights went up
the cute boy who asked me shyly if he could walk me all the way home

AND NOW: there have been more dances
and more good night kisses
and more crooked smiles
and still
I feel sort of like Cinderella
except my night doesn't end with a pumpkin
and I never had to lose my own shoes.