At Least I'm In Good Company

I have been informed, sadly, that the previous poem (or rather, the one posted just below this) is not good. Yes, I suppose it isn't. I reluctantly but assuredly accept this diagnosis. In fact, it's somewhat embarrassing to know that I posted the stupid thing. I could delete it, but as my father says, even Shakespeare wrote crap once in a while. More at the beginning, when he was just getting the hang of it, so no offense to Bardolators.

Speaking of which, to make a quick aside, type the word "bardolator" into a search engine (I almost used the word "google" as a verb, but I thought perhaps some might want to Ask Jeeves instead). It's amazing how many people take pride in calling themselves one. I admire the man, yes, but in all honesty, not to that extent. And I come into problems when people gush about the greatness of "Romeo and Juliet." Did those two have to make everything so complicated? Just run off together, if it's that awful to tell your families the truth. Or even if you still want to fake your deaths, why do it so cloak-and-dagger? The simpler things are, the less that'll go wrong. And I can't quite understand Juliet, who's portrayed as calmer and more rational than the impetuous Romeo, and then stays with him even after he kills her cousin - who at that point was Romeo's cousin too. She's very forgiving - much more so than I would be.

But in regards to my own meager work, at least I know that someone (who shall remain nameless here but who I'm incredibly thankful for) understands what I was trying to do. In retrospect, I suppose I should have picked a more European god for my reference, but I figured, wolf... dog... Anubis... It connects, it gets there.

I had another idea for a poem, but I think I'll spare y'all that for right now. It's a reference poem anyway, and I'm not at all sure of all the words to the "Good King Wenceslas" song. I've just looked it up, out of curiousity. Perhaps I shan't use this tune as a reference after all. Out of respect for an assassinated man. "Betrayed by [his] own brother," to (sort of) quote the movie "Mousehunt". I shall think about it, and you shall be notified if I decide to go ahead with my poem.

The site didn't say if he was a good king. But, then again, good is subjective, isn't it?

Taking My Own Advice (I Hope)

Apparently, I started connecting my thoughts about Lovecraft to a poem we read called "The Mill" by Edwin Arlington Robinson. Here's a poem that I jotted down today between classes. With some minor editing, if I'm being honest. I'm hoping the ending works like I intended. Enjoy!

Morning Musings

I sit and see the shadows of an oft-remembered night
Slide soft as silk away from me, as I from silver's sight.
A shaft of shining Summer sun comes hither from the East
And brings with it the silence of nocturnal callings ceased.
At once I hear a strutting singer's greetings to the day,
And feel all fear and trepidation melt and fade away.
When Ra returns, I know at once my ship has come alee.
I sink down in mah easy chair. Ah drink a cuppa tea.
It might could help me stop a-thinkin', 'bout them things Ah done,
To sit an' sip mah icy tea. Ah never did care none
About that Chaney feller, from them mangy monster films.
Ah'd like to know how he would act if they'd've chewed on him.

Loving Lovecraft's Craft

What a title, huh? I'm thinking about deleting it, honestly, but that probably won't happen. I have to think of something else to put in its place, and quite frankly, I'm not going to do that. Despite its innate corniness, I think it says just what I intend to say.

I have just finished reading two short stories by H.P. Lovecraft. The titles of these particular two were "Pickman's Model" and "Cool Air." You may be familiar with them (I am almost positive I've read Pickman once before, from a collection book I own, but this was my first encounter with the other). To come out and say what I'm dying to say, the man's a genius. The twists at the end of his stories are superb, even ausgezeichnet, although some of the punch was lost when I understood what had happened to Dr. Muñoz (from "Cool Air") before he got around to explaining in the letter he left for the narrator. The reason for this was probably because I had just finished reading Pickman, and just kept right on going. When you read enough of Lovecraft's works in a row, you begin to notice patterns and become able to predict the twists (rather like watching movies by M. Night Shyamalan, nicht wahr?).

I think Lovecraft's method in writing must have been to come up with the ending first. Surely it must be so. Everything leads up to that one glorious moment when everything... I can't really say that everything becomes clear, as some of them still confuse me. I can't quite come to grips with "The Music of Erich Zann." I can't explain my quiet confusion without giving away the ending. I can't even explain my theories for fear of hinting at the conclusion. Let's just say I think that "portal" as a synonym for "window" is incredibly accurate. But even then, everything rises in a crashing crescendo. Lovecraft almost delights in destruction. Though you can almost always find a theme, or an underlying metaphor, that final cataclysm that happens with the shocking revelation seems like it's the focal point of the story. Even though it can be boiled down to a simple sentence like... It's a mirror... It's a photograph... It's his father... He's been dead this whole time: a theme both Lovecraft and Shyamalan used - that's a coincidence I hadn't expected... the discovery still seems to be somehow profoundly unexpected.

The ending is the most important thing.

A Difficulty Solved in One Fell Swoop

The problem, as I see it, is posting something that can keep a person's attention until the end of the post Did Wednesday's little ramble do that? More than likely... no. In this particular day and age of instant gratification, if new and interesting material isn't presented within five seconds, the discerning reader will simply move on. If a person can't think of anything interesting to say, well, so much the worse. The daunting, looming question one begins to ask is, "Dear Lord, is there nothing in my life worth chronicling?"

But! A ray of hope! One begins to forget that a journal is not a diary. Ah, semantics! You save me yet again! An ocean of possibility opens up in front of me, and I decide (what the hell) let's dive right in.

You're getting a poem.

When the Well Runs Dry

You try one thing... You try another... Nothing seems to gel.
The only words that come to mind are "bat right out of hell."
You know that you can't publish that, since someone (Meatloaf) did.
You're second horse out of the gate. Your eBay's been outbid.
And that is when you start to think that maybe you should try
Some free association, or you stop and wonder why.
Why do you put yourself through this...this STRUGGLE day by day
When you can't seem to think of something really new to say...
When at the sight of type or ink your mind turns into mud...
When every rhyme or tale or thought turns out to be a dud...
When each impending plan dissolves before it's half begun...
You say it's 'cause you love to write... But you're not having fun.

The Beginning of "The Beginning of the End"

It seems that I've only been in college for... what... it can't have been more than three or four decades, right? Surely I shouldn't be practically graduated, not yet... I've got so much more learning to do. But, alas, the hours have indeed accumulated, and - according to my calculations - I should graduate next May.

The point of this blog? Quite frankly, I think you might find it hard to find one. I don't plan on trying to make my posts relevant to one another. There's a fair chance some things on here won't make sense to anyone but me. I am, unfortunately, a very random person, as you will find out if you stick around. I have many reasons to start this up (which, if you'd like one, let me make an allusion that only some of you will understand: I've got a 3.97 GPA and I'm not willing to let that fall just because I might be somewhat averse to starting a blog).

I did start a blog once before, back when I was still in highschool, and it didn't last long. Most folks find other people's dreams are fairly boring - so no wonder no one seemed to care too much about that night I dreamt I used a wand to hurl spells at my enemies from the castle parapet, or the dream when I was involved in that high speed chase after the policeman thought I had stolen a box of oranges (I didn't... I promise).

So, let me just finish up this post by actually beginning to start writing... writing something akin to the kind of thing the rest of this blog is supposed to contain.

Here is a sudden little thought I had today and I wanted to share. Wait a second, I need to set this up. I promised the AWS (the Association for Women's Studies) that I would sit at their table and hand out information during this, Stampede Week. The Fall semester is here, bringing with it an influx of Freshmen, and we here at UCO are the Bronchos (I can almost hear you going, "oh, that's why they call it Stampede Week... I got ya.") The campus, quite frankly, is crowded already - nothing compared to some of the bigger colleges in this state (I'm told buses take you to classes from the parking lots) - but they are constructing another additional building right next to Liberal Arts (my home base). This blocks off the rest of the campus, and to say the least, I'm somewhat displeased. But I tell myself the building might be interesting, and that takes away some of the pain. I see that I've tangented. This is good. Now you know how a post from me might behave. Back to the thought I had today. I was walking through the stampede, headed for the table which I didn't have exact coordinates for, but was told could be found in der Nähe von Broncho Lake. Oh, yes, before I forget... I might type in German every now and then. If I hear German in my head, that's what you'll see on the screen. My brain likes doing that, and I'm almost a hundred percent sure it's unconscious. Good news... It is the unconscious part of my brain that I intended to talk about originally, so we've come full circle! I walked through a swarm of the newest additions to our gorgeous campus (Am I being sarcastic? You may never know), and suddenly a line from the Disney film Aladdin popped into my head.

"Fresh fish! We catch 'em, you buy 'em!"

Yep, that's what I heard in my head. Looking around at all the Freshman fish (get it now?), I discovered I was grinning like mad. No one else on this campus would have thought that. Okay, maybe my sister might have. Very often, she's the only one who gets my reference jokes.

And that's my story for today. I know. Gripping! Stay tuned for next time, when I'll be extolling the many virtues of choosing a Prada-free existence.