Au Weh.

So many good ideas that I have read in this batch of papers, just poor, poor execution. Such a sad tragedy to read an opportunity wasted.

Hello.

Hello vast internet and its readers. Forgive me, for we have not spoken for awhile; nevertheless, my pen still meets with paper.  Today I begin a personal social experiment, a self-diagnostic.  At the very least, it will be many hours of answers to questions asked during therapy sessions all compacted neatly into one little notebook.

Meanwhile, I recommend reading the following for male and female, young and old readers alike:

A Tale of Pike Place

From my blog at AngeLingo:

For my first blog post on our newly redesigned site, I find it perfectly fitting to tell you the tale of my maiden voyage to THE ORIGINAL STARBUCKS. Perhaps I did not emphasize that enough.

The Original Starbucks

 

My tale begins with three college students piling into my roommate(Leigh!)’s car at the wee, early hour of 9:00am. After many miles of sleeping traveling, from city to city and climate to climate, the three students arrive at Berkeley (read: sssssssss) for room and board–specifically couches and the most amazing bread from a small restaurant named La Note.

P.S. I’m just kidding about the sssssssss thing. Between football seasons, I ♥ Berkeley.

Two days of glorious fun in San Francisco pass, of which include miniature tales of dinosaurs, skulls, middle-of-nowhere-sushi, bar hopping, drinking, Saint Patty’s Day celebrations, Leigh purposefully provoking a debate with Brandice so she does not freak out that she is under millions of tons of water in a NON-WATERPROOF tram-thing, and much much more.

Alas, after many more miles of traveling and mountainous driving, the three students arrive in Seattle, which is where our real tale begins…

The first scheduled tourist destination is Pike Place, which for all of those unfamiliar with Seattle, really just means PIKE PLACE STARBUCKS, AKA:

The Original Starbucks

 

Well, maybe it is the Farmer’s Market of Seattle… but Pike Place is the home of the very first Starbucks EVER. And really this post is just an excuse venue for me to post pictures and brag because anybody who knows me will name my Starbucks addiction as one of my most defining qualities.

As we are walking through the quirky Pike Place, which smells of fish and fish, I see it. There. Without being told this is the original Starbucks (because I am retarded and failed to correlate Pike Place Roast with PIKE PLACE BEING THE HOME OF THE ORIGINAL STARBUCKS), I know. I know this Starbucks must be the first, the original. I walk near the intimidating yet welcoming entrance, one foot slowly following the other, and then stand in awe below the historic ugly siren. (←Must read link to your left)

 

 

Immediately upon stepping within the store’s handsomely aged walls, my nostrils fill with the sublime and heavenly smell of… well, STARBUCKS COFFEE. (Geez, what did you expect?) I approach the counter and, with my heart fluttering, order my usual–yet it is completely unusual and intoxicating.  Then magically from across the store my drink appears. 

 

 

A Grande Peppermint Mocha Frappuccino just for me. With a beautiful covering of mocha drizzle, also just for me. The first sip, as it moves from cup to straw to tongue, tastes of complete delight. The frappuccino’s pure magic elicits this behavior:

 

 

The End.

Manic about Manic D Press

I do not think my poetry is for everyone. I do not think that my poetry belongs in most, and especially not traditional, publishing houses. But I certainly do with every fragment of my soul believe that my poetry + Manic D Press = just right. Save for the fact that the small press does not necessarily inform authors that their works have been trashed.  Perhaps I am too demanding, but I find this a bit rude and inconsiderate:

Please do not call or email regarding your submission. We’ll be in touch if we’re going to publish your work.

Yeah, mail is lost quite rarely, but it does happen.

If I close my eyes, stick my head in the ground ostrich-style, and pretend the above quote never happened, I feel at home among the Manic D Press Books.  I like the authors. I like their works. I like the cover art. The fonts. EVERYTHING seems right and equivalent to how I would like to see my works enter the print world.

Just for kicks, here is my submission letter, lovingly formed and apparently not appreciated:

To Jennifer Joseph and Manic D Press,

I cannot tolerate suck-ups.  So it bothers me slightly that the following letter of submission might be misconstrued as a shiny red apple.   Let me assure you, it is not.  If anything, consider this an olive.  Bold, flavorful, and quite literally an hors d’oeuvre, this letter’s purpose serves to market my poetry for publishing; nevertheless, in doing so, I must first tell you that when reading about and digging around Manic D Press, I have never felt more at home in a literary sense.

In regard to the Manic D Press publication that I chose to address in this letter (Matt Cook’s The Unreasonable Slug), I must reply that, in addition to specific thoughts on the author’s work, my most striking observation is the book itself.  More than half of my hand-written comments were made before I even read a single line of poetry.  I oohed and aahed over the simplicity and sophistic integrity of the overall piece.  From the subtlety of the colors and the aesthetically pleasing cover art to the understated fonts and layout, the overall book rested in my hand an individual work of accomplished art.  All of this (I swear) I noted before even reading your (Joseph’s) quote:

“It’s not just the writing itself but it’s the whole: it’s the cover, it’s the way the book feels in your hand. It’s a whole experience…a book is the proper place for words to live.”

As for Matt Cook and his poetry in general, I appreciate his phrasing, diction, and voice as in the line “probably suffered from poor packaging” on page fifteen.  His poetry offers idiosyncratic and bizarre observations of ordinary topics that would otherwise fall beneath average examination, or would at least be addressed with detached language and phrasing.  Yet he revisits the menial parts of life with comically dry and cynical interest, caring masked by “not” caring.  Rhythmically Cook’s collective work seamlessly flows from one poem to the next, creating harmony among his words.

Nevertheless, I see similarities between his works and mine.  The vague, sometimes misleading, yet intriguing titles.  His free-form style rather than following traditional rhyme schemes and parameters.  His use of repetition as a literary device.

However, despite these similarities, my poetry and prose contrast his observational style by speaking with a more confrontational, poignant voice.  My words are personal and strong.  I often describe my poetic execution as the mating of Nicole Blackman’s voice with the tone of a Kafka-Poe hybrid, perhaps with a few contemporary references in reminiscence of T. S. Elliot.  Like Blackman, I command the audience’s attention by speaking directly to the reader, placing the reader in the position of one of my characters.  Sometimes I assault the reader; in other instances I toy with the audience by offering multiple innuendoes and hinting toward the darker side of words’ connotations.  My poetry is not one-sided.  I write to challenge the audience, to evoke a response so that the written word becomes a dialogue rather than a monologue.   

After trying my poetry for publication within several literary journals and magazines—to no avail—I have realized that I would rather my poetry exist as a whole, its own publication standing on a shelf in its own right.  It has become my dream to work with a small, quirky press dedicated to progress and quality, so that the aesthetics and feel of the overall final product may embrace my poetic content and truly represent me as an author and a person.  A book, I feel, is the proper place for my words to live, and I also believe that Manic D Press is the rightful place for my book to come to life.

Thus, I present to you a sampling of seven poems representative of my proposed book, Sunnyside Up, written under the pseudonym Mersedes Bach, which I have also used to construct my blog, Scant.

Sincerely,

 

And here lies the tentative cover art that will not be born from Manic D Press:

EM-ARE-EYE

So tomorrow I will be getting an MRI, having an MRI, undergoing an MRI…whatever. The point is me=MRI tomorrow for participation credit in a PSYC study, researching who knows what.  Especially since a scan of the inside of my brain will produce two possible results:

1) Revealing little aliens operating my body from inside my brain, just waiting for the perfect moment to burst out and take over the world. (This could explain the Pinky and the Brain thing-don’t worry, it’s a YouTube reference)

2) A single, lone tumbleweed.

Screwed

The angel on my left says true friends do not treat each other like shit while the daemon on my right thinks that they are the most fun I will ever know.

I am an addict, and you are my greatest poison.

A Question of Maturity

The point at which good advice is accepted and applied is not necessarily a certain level of maturity, but rather a breaking point–a point of realization.  

Quite some time ago my aunt, with whom I am not that close, shared valuable advice with me; however, at that time I was not at the breaking point that would allow me to listen and heed her words.  I was on the phone with two of my drunken friends from early high school years while she overheard my end of the conversation.  I am not sure what she deduced from half of a phone call, but I do know that whatever her assumptions, they were bad.  She did not approve of the people with whom I was fraternizing.  After ending the conversation with my friends, I awarded her disapproving glance with a casual “My friends are wild”.  I did not mean that they were wild in a negative manner, such as irresponsible or inappropriate, but rather that they were entertaining .  Primarily they entertained me. She replied, as I will remember indefinitely, “What is important when choosing friends is their character”.  

Years later, tonight specifically, I realize the magnitude of her words.  Friends are not for entertainment, they are for support.  I cannot say this thought has never entered my mind since the beginnings of our friendships.  Character.  The first time I questioned the presence of this quality I should have resolved to end it there.  I did actually–try.  I have tried numerous times to sever the likes of you from my life, remove the poison completely, but each time I am suckered into the concord effect; each time I think that after putting so many years, time, and effort into this broken friendship, throwing it away would be a waste.  

But I will be deceived no longer.

You may call my actions immature, but the ironic fact is that neither of you even understood what I meant by “goodbye”.  You may think this temporary–”oh she’s pissed, she’s fed up”–and expect me to return the next day as if nothing ever happened, but I will be taken for granted no longer.

Apologies stand meaningless without sincerity, and they are certainly worthless when the hollow words change nothing.  I do not want an apology.  I do not even want you to change, contrary to popular belief.  Really, I would not change or wish change upon the two of you.

I just want out.  I want to spend my time with my friends who have character, upstanding character.  Friends from whom I learn.  Friends who allow me to grow.  People who do not leave me hurt and would never constantly berate me the way that you do, joking or not.  Because everyone knows you are not actually joking.

You see I really was not acting immature by giving you the “cold shoulder”.  That was not even a cold shoulder, rather I reached the breaking point of realization that what I do or say really does not matter, and my actions proved the point.  You did not even notice that I had ceased communication until the fact was pointed out to you, despite my blatant, complete silence the entire night.

You do not care what I have to say.  You do not care about what I think.  You berate me in every aspect possible: my intelligence, my personality, my feelings, my capabilities, my appearance.  You do not respect my possessions.  You appreciate neither my company nor my friendship.

I am at that breaking point where I can no longer see any reason to endure the aforementioned abuse.  You see the truly, truly ironic part about this whole situation is that the majority of all of my problems revolve around my trust issues–the trust issues that became instilled within me because of this SAME FUCKING CIRCUMSTANCE.  My heart was broken, not by a lover, but by my best friend.  This was forever ago.  Yet I still cannot put all of my trust into one person, no matter their kindness or character.  It is impossible for me to completely open up to any one single person.  Do you want to know why I have intimacy issues? BECAUSE I NEVER LEARNED.  

I never changed.  I make the same repetitive mistake like some dumbass on the shallow end of the learning curve.  Which is why I am not asking you to change.  I am the one who needs to change.

I change today.  Today at 3:18 am I change, not because I am immature, as this just might be the smartest and most mature decision I have made in awhile, but because I have reached the breaking point.  I deserve friends who act as such.  I deserve friends with character.

Mad Hatter

It has now become official: Urbandictionary.com has killed my dreams, betrayed me, and permanently crippled my preferred vocabulary.  I can no longer flippantly and obsessively rely on the term “mad hatter” at my convenience for describing any trippy, psychedelic, or curious observations.  Truly I have relied on the phrase far too extensively; however, I do not appreciate now having to go cold turkey off the term.
  

Or perhaps I should blame the urban public and its constant alterations of contextual meanings.   So many common words in the English language have acquired so many different vernacular meanings, all entirely unrelated to their proper denotations, that even natively speaking English-folk can no longer properly and efficiently communicate.  Notice the subtle difference between “the shit” and “is shit”.  Since when does “deface” pertain to an online action rather than a physical show of disrespect, i.e. destroying with intention?  No, no.  “Deface” means to defriend someone on Facebook.
 

Wait.  Did I just use a previously non-existent word (defriend) and misuse the word friend?  You see, the term friend at one time applied to a person known extremely well and considered loyal, fun, and dependable.  However, with the dawn of Facebook, the term has been devalued to mere “acquaintance” or “person convenient to make me look popular like I have, like a ton of friends”.
 

But I digress.  This pertains to “mad hatter”.  Once such an inspiring character, full of endless literary opportunities, the term now flatly refers to a hand job.  Actually, a bad hand job.  Not even a good one.  In fact the hand job in question, of course called a mad hatter, goes something like this according to Urban Dictionary: “A poorly performed handjob. Usually by a girl who says she is experienced. Yet, in actuality, she jerks you off like a crazed sea dragon.”  I myself, as a chick, have never received a “hand job” nonetheless a bad one; however, I can see where the crazed sea dragon would be somewhat of a turn off.
 

If this were not a horrid enough redefining of my precious, ALAS! Urban Dictionary has provided yet another defacement of the term:

“In this situation, a man would be in the process of getting head from his Partner, while he is standing and she is on her knees. Right before ejaculation the man would pull out, cum in her eyes, sit on top of her head and drop a deuce.

Last night I picked up this ho at the club and when she was giving me head I pulled off a mad hatter.”

See this is the maddening part of it all, the term “mad hatter” is not even necessary for this situation.  This event already has a name-”Blumpkins”.  Also, a beauty of the English language: numerous and never-ending supplies of words, all to describe the same phenomenon.
 

Yes, I realize Urban Dictionary does not fully deserve the blame.  The convergence of all languages helped form the English language, thus providing multiple words with the same meaning.  This I know.  I also know that pop culture leads to references that lend to the rewriting of pages and pages within our dictionary bible.  Did you like my aforementioned “my precious” reference?  Lord of the Rings has officially contributed to our language, our vernacular; however, I must note that the definitions provided on Urban Dictionary for this term are shoddy at best.
 

Nevertheless, for one cause or for all, the term “mad hatter” has become stricken from my vocabulary archives for fear of a misinterpretation.  Contextual clues do not always save the day, especially when the phrase is employed in a vague manner, as I usually intend.  Nor does the typical accompanying of sarcasm. 
 

Let it be known that I refer not to a blumpkin when I say that Urban Dictionary and our modern tailoring of the English language have some mad hatter connotations.

 

 

 

 

From the Desk of an Invalid

I have come to realize that I very much take for granted the small things.  Like the ability to chew without thinking about chewing.  Or eating whatever I prefer.  Or the choice to toss and turn and sleep on my stomach with my face buried into the pillow if my subconscious so chooses.  As a newly rendered invalid due to the removal of four impacted wisdom teeth, I am feeling somewhat less wise, grossly unsettled, and agitated as hell.  Thus, if I was not fighting a borderline precarious state already, I am now blatantly and hopelessly stuck in the middle of a horrible funk.  Everything is too much effort, and life tastes as foul as the blood in my mouth.

I have been here before; no doubt this is anything but uncharted territory, but the external and environmental stressors certainly do not help when coupled with the pre-existing internal tumult.  I am up.  I am down.  Every moment is a struggle between a good day and a bad.  The only constant factor remains my lack of belief in myself.  I even view this blog as a failure.  As demonstrated by the calendar, much time has passed since my last post.  Each time I attempt to write, as my pen meets with paper, my words fall flat, and I am forced with the realization that they are unimportant, insignificant.  No one cares.  And if no one cares, why bother to record the monologue?

The Art of Lying

I possessed no positive words for the evil institution that held me captive and subjected me to IQ-sucking dealings, if it may be privileged with such a description. Ideally I would have been allowed to terminate my association with the school and town entirely at the first possible moment; however, because of various pressures my engagement with a microphone and the devil himself could not be avoided. Though I truly would have preferred to abstain from the entire graduation ceremony proceedings, I regret not delivering a speech of truth to the thousands of eyes whose audience I maintained for a precious indefinite interval of time, for I could have revealed to the naive the corrupt and inhibiting environment of which they refer to as a legitimate educational system. Instead I, as a coward, ironically yet hollowly relayed The Art of War, Sun Tzu’s message of victory and principle, for a mere three and a half minutes…

For the complete text, visit my page “The Art of Lying”
http://scanties.wordpress.com/the-art-of-lying/