Ophelia's Nun
FinsburyParkCarrots
Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
Make ya look
Made ya stare
Made ya lose
ya underwear
Made ya stare
Made ya lose
ya underwear
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Age: 23
Occupation: Student. Stiber loves being a student. He has noticed ecological changes taking place in his environment and has devoted his time to studying these changes.
Father’s Occupation: Community leader and Choral Director for Spring Wetland Concerts. Stiber’s father would really like his only son to follow in his footsteps and take over as Choral Director for Spring Wetland Concert Series, which is a very well thought of position within the community.
Stibers Long Time Ambition: To be a Scientist. He would like to escape the small mindedness of the community, yet does love them and desires to stop the recent negative environmental changes he has observed around his homeland.
Inherited Family Trait: Stiber is a frog that should know his place in the wetlands and pond community but sees changes he can’t ignore.
Stiber has a loving family who mean well but don’t understand or comprehend evolutionary anomalies. They do their best but are uncomfortable with Stiber’s apparent love for research and discovery. Stiber also possesses a secret evolutionary anomaly himself that his family desperately tries to conceal thus subconsciously instilling shame in Stiber. However, Stiber is busy with his studies evolutionary pond activity and takes little note of the changes he is going through that differentiate him from the community. He starts to think beyond the pond, which makes his family even more nervous.
Newspaper: Amphibians Today/ Aqueous Humor
Propose something that might enter this character's life that would offer them a way out. Stibers submits a research article on climatic changes and the negative effect it’s having on wetland environments to a scientific review magazine. (Yet, he submits it under an assumed identity, as frog research papers aren’t published.)
In the meantime, here's a Tagore poem:
I AM RESTLESS
Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)
I am restless. I am athirst for far-away things.
My soul goes out in a longing to touch the skirt of the dim distance.
O Great Beyond, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget, that I have no wings to fly, that I am bound in this spot evermore.
I am eager and wakeful, I am a stranger in a strange land.
Thy breath comes to me whispering an impossible hope.
Thy tongue is known to my heart as its very own.
O Far-to-seek, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget, that I know not the way, that I have not the winged horse.
I am listless, I am a wanderer in my heart.
In the sunny haze of the languid hours, what vast vision of thine takes shape in the blue of the sky!
O Farthest end, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget, that the gates are shut everywhere in the house where I dwell alone!
From The Gardener by Rabindranath Tagore ( New York: The Macmillan Company, 1913).
More, people. More.
........Making her way through the ever-growing crowd and looking a bit confused, Molly flags down a gentleman wearing a bright orange-red blazer with the word “Staff” boldly printed across his back. “Is this where the botanical lecture on Impatiens Capensis is?”, she says looking completely lost. “I-I-I was looking for professor Monarda Didyma” she informs the security guard. “I was told she was lecturing at the Magison Garden Conservatory.” Her head leans into him straining to hear his responses. -"You said what? This is where? No lecture here, you say?" She's getting frustrated so asks, “Well, what are all these people doing here anyway?”
“Oh! I see”, she says, sagely head nodding. “A concert, hmm!” Molly hears him say something about a Ricky Nelson. Molly asks this guard one more time, “Are SURE he’s not a Botanist?, and you did say Madison Square Garden?”
Molly pushes her glasses back up onto her face in frustration and digs through her purse to find her notebook. She peruses impatiently her address and directions. As she is reading through her notes, the lights begin to dim from the nearby auditorium, and she hears music coming from the corridor in front of her.
"I went to a garden party to reminisce with my old friends
A chance to share old memories and play our songs again
When I got to the garden party, they all knew my name
No one recognized me, I didn't look the same
But it's all right now, I learned my lesson well.
You see, ya can't please everyone, so ya got to please yourself
People came from miles around, everyone was there
Yoko brought her walrus, there was magic in the air
'n' over in the corner, much to my surprise
Mr. Hughes hid in Dylan's shoes wearing his disguise
But it's all right now, I learned my lesson well.
You see, ya can't please everyone, so ya got to please yourself"
(Lyrics to "Garden Party" Copyright (c) Ricky Nelson )
In the UK, people look for accommodation, whereas in the US, people look for accommodations. British people fly in aeroplanes, US people in airplanes. Brits drink cola out of aluminium cans, Americans out of aluminum. British kids ask Mummy to help with maths homework, and US kids ask Mommy to help with math homework.
In the great Blissweave tradition of bringing people together across the English-speaking globe, let's explore words and phrases that vary across both sides of the Atlantic so that confusion may no longer reign o'er us! Please research variants and include them here. We'll then know our drawing pin is our thumbtack, our paraffin is our kerosene, our telly is our TV and our letter zed is our letter zee!
http://www.myspace.com/crinnish
I've done a new one. Coming soon.
The Very Very Beginning
She stood behind the clothing goods counter at her job on this lazy summer afternoon feeling tanned and quite content. Giving herself to the lazy hummm of activity in the store her mind soon began to drift. Summer was closing in and she became lost in the daydreams of her future engagement! The parties! The festivities! The Wedding! The buzz of excitement! She lost track of time, enchanted in thought, as the sun sank lower in the sky.
Lost in a state of lucid dreaming she barely noticed the door of the store slowly swing open. As she was leisurely taking pleasure in her thoughts, something was seemingly pulling her back into the present. It was a strange and intoxicating odor. Nothing like she had ever experienced. The sweet heavy odor intensified and hung in the humid summer afternoon’s air. The sugary scent was so thick she felt she could reach out and touch it. She could taste the sweetness and its overwhelming flavors devoured her.
The western exposure of the store’s picture window was glaring in the afternoon sun. She looked up from the counter towards the window and through foggy eyes barely made out a shadow of someone standing there. Odd she didn’t hear anyone come in. She called out “hello”, but no response. She brought her hand up to block the over powering glare of the sun and the outline became more pronounced. She gasped and whispered to her self, “It’s a man”. He seemed to loom even larger than his 6’1” athletic stature. He was a bit scruffy; dirt streaked face, big thick boots, and a well-worn woolen plaid shirt with thick mud soaked dungarees.
As she stared seemingly countless minutes into the sunlight, he ventured to ask her for her help. He had steel blue eyes. The kind you would think bullfighters must have when staring down a bull. His prominent forehead accentuated his masculinity and she sat there speechless. Emotion bubbled to the surface and every sense seemed to be overtaken.….
(The rest to this day remains a blur for her….She just shakes her head and exclaims, “It was the smell. Oh, God that thick languid smell.”)
He was a student at the University of Washington majoring in Mechanical Engineering and playing football. His schedule was full with football and studying and he didn’t have much time for anything else. Except on summer breaks, when he would go help his grandfather on the Bee Farm. He loved being with his grandfather and enjoyed all the labor-intensive aspects of being a Beekeeper. It was on a day towards the end of summer that he noticed they were out of the mesh materials needed to strain the honey. He had been working all-day and hesitated to go into town covered head to toe with honey and looking quite a mess. But, they needed the mesh to complete the days tasks, so off he went.
He entered the store only to find a stunningly attractive woman behind the counter. She seemed a bit taken a back by his appearance and wasn’t responding to his inquiries for help. Damn, he thought to himself, I look a fright! What must she think!
After helping him, she invited him that very evening to a picnic a friend of hers was hosting....
Curled up with a Good Book under Tropical Skies
Her Dad was an Engineer with an Oil Company, which afforded him many different jobs in many parts of the world. He had just announced another move. “Hawaii?’, she thought, “Will I fit in?”. She had her doubts. But her family was close, and they were always there whenever she needed them.
She fell in love with the people and the place immediately. The aloha spirit which envelopes the islands seemed to hug her, too, as she arrived at the airport. She knew this was to be a truly special time in her life.
The house they lived in was nothing special. And in Hawaii nothing special means nothing special. No need for heat or insulation, the only adjustment was making room for the wonderful harmless native insects that shared your dwelling. On the shaded north side of the house was a wall of brown hollow cinder blocks. As her family took up residence in this island’s retreat, another family of bees was moving in that cinder block wall. What a perfect place to nest, make memories/honey, and be happy both families thought.
The cinder block’s interior wall was located in the back 2nd bathroom. There in the soft yellow-gold glow of the small room, the scents emanating from the hive were most perceptible. Honey mingled with the floral scent of Hawaii, that room hummed and had a life and an energy all its’ own.
It was that room that she liked to read. She would take her pillow and set it down near the wall. The wall was always warm, softly buzzing with constant energy and activity. As she cuddled against the wall she could feel its gentle hum. It wasn’t so much a sound as it was a vibration. The smells assaulting her senses were the sweetest fragrances one could possibly imagine. It was the wild tropical pollen of the islands mixed with the fruits the bees were generating. Curled up against the wall, over taken by sensations only this room could afford, she read.
And as she read, the world blossomed with each new book.
he's at the bathroom mirror, shaving. Up
he pokes his chin. He drags the blades with slow
steady downward care, and pulls a group
of bristles from their roots. Now he moves
the razor to his face; through soap the steel
slides; skin shine appears in soft pink grooves
while curls of foamblue beard unfurl like peel
and fall down in the white sink water. "Am
I lucky! Yes! Some lands won't let you shave
Your face!" Meanwhile the covert minicam
between the twin blades films him. "Yes, we have
true freedoms here!" He draws the razor close.
Surveillance gets a view right up his nose.
And responded to dyaogirl's posts,
try this!
Describe the socio-economic status, politics and attitudes of each person; flesh them out; consider how the two characters have grown apart in their fortunes and opinions and how they cope with the revelation of their distance. How do they negotiate this change with themselves and each other? How could you narrate their past closeness and contrast it with the present world of the narrative?
Now, think of an event, a situation that happens to bring these two together either to reconciliation or to conflict. It could be a football match, a shared love, an accident: The more you exercise your imagination with the realms of realism the better! Then, focus on the psychological dynamics between the two characters.
You could write a short story, a piece of dramatic script or a poem, but the key thing is to try to express not only the spoken but the silent language of distance.
Describe the socio-economic status, politics and attitudes of each person; flesh them out; consider how the two characters have grown apart in their fortunes and opinions and how they cope with the revelation of their distance. How do they negotiate this change with themselves and each other? How could you narrate their past closeness and contrast it with the present world of the narrative?
Now, think of an event, a situation that happens to bring these two together either to reconciliation or to conflict. It could be a football match, a shared love, an accident: The more you exercise your imagination with the realms of realism the better! Then, focus on the psychological dynamics between the two characters.
You could write a short story, a piece of dramatic script or a poem, but the key thing is to try to express not only the spoken but the silent language of distance.[/quote]
Was his wife given life, a monument
To excess, wanted Flitt to cringe and has
On some occasion, been know to lament
That she could never press Flitt for answers,
Flitt did all the pressing in the olive stamp
His education, left unread, joyful sirs
Is attrocious, give this man a new life, damp
Flitt's fall from immortal grace, float his soul
Above the salted tides and waves, boiled foam
Is his destiny, pursues his dream to roll
Down a hill with Mary, he wants her home
Again as she was his true love that night,
Mary - she is the love made him alright.
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
B: What's in it?
A: Have a sandwich!
B: What's in it?
A: I don't know what's in it. Onion, tomato.
B: What's in the brown sandwiches?
A: Cheese.
B: What kind?
A: Red kind.
B: I'll give it a miss. I never eat really, when I'm working. I'll have a shot of tea though, if you've got some.
A: Plenty.
B: Where are the mugs?
A: Under your nose, under the dashboard there.
B: That mug's filthy! It's got lumps of grit in it! Is that tarmac!
A: Here, hold your mug up. I'll wash it out with this tea from the flask.
B: Careful! Watch it! You're spilling it on me!
A: Keep the mug still then!
B: I am keeping it still. Did you open the top of that flask properly at all? Nearly scalded me for life there.
A: Arra, course I did.
B: The stream came out all funny, twisted.
A: It's you that's twisted. Keep still.
B: Open the mouth of that flask dead on the threads, it'll come. Yeah, like that. Now pour. That's better.
A: More?
B: Keep pouring... whoa, that's enough. That's enough! How much milk did you put in this tea?
A: Plenty. What do you want milk for?
B: You'd need a jack hammer to get through this. How many tea bags did you put in the flask?
A: A few.
B: Looks like it. You like your tea strong.
A: Strong, strong. So a mouse could run across the top of it. No point drinking weak tea.
B: We got a fair bit done this morning.
A: We did. There's plenty more to do. But when you're in the ditch, don't be pulling the fork towards you when you're gathering the cress up. Stick the fork straight in and lift it, and fire it up on the bank from the forearms. That's where all the power is. Don't be dragging the cress back on yourself in the water in heaps and sticking the fork in on yourself. Those waders cost me two hundred quid.
B: These?
A: Them. And don't be making holes in them. Want a look at this paper?
B: Alright then.
A: Take your gloves off then. Don't be marking the pages with dirt. Pooh, your hands stink of sweat! Look at the steam coming off them!
B: They're all wrinked too.
A: Wash them!
B: With what?
A: There's tea here.
Look what they done with my vote
Touched the vote screen button, fine
Then someone tripped on the cable line
Look what they done with my vote
Look how the lawyers gather 'round, ma
Look how the lawyers gather 'round
They say the vote result's in doubt
For $$$$ they're gonna drag this out
Look how the lawyers gather 'round
Remember all them dimpled chads, ma
Remember all them dimpled chads
Now the voting's gone hi-tech
But does it work right? Does it heck!
We ain't moved on from dimpled chads
Who's gonna be the president, ma
Who's gonna be the president?
We have to wait a week or three
Before the high courts can agree:
That's when we'll know the president.
http://www.kevincoyne.de/MP3/hoth4.mp3
http://www.kevincoyne.de/
In knuckle grey men’s grip of what is here
And what is gone: Begin a wing beat bead
Of flight. Trail fire from your spirit cere.
String our senses in your spirit breath.
Blue flame, write life and light our grey ground death.
at shoots of minds that might dissent.
your half hacking left me cut, Empire blade,
but it’s my own dirt on your face that’ll kill me,
kill us both.
jailed, let loose on this shadowed lunar eclipse,
tried, judged by gristled bastards with a kidney machine,
executed by the satiated macho kissed son of sum bitch
certificates, id's call him a man,
judgements and papers cast no truth
for his is the last of the hisselfs,
a lament of later than never,
a sad tablature of his favorite song
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
B: Er, yes. Yes, it is.
A: That's a lot of reading.
B: Hmmm. It is.
(pause)
A: Don't think I'd have the patience.
(pause)
I mean, that print's small. My eyes wouldn't hack that strain. Reading the paper's bad enough. I suppose you read one of them big ole papers. I said I suppose you read one of them big ole papers! Not the papers us sort as read.
B: Yes, yes. Maybe. Ahem.
A: What's it about?
B: What's what about?
A: Your book?
B: Oh. It's a play. Titus Andronicus. Shakespeare.
A: Shakespeare. Never could be doing with Shakespeare. Lot of talking backwards, I reckon. And he didn't write them plays himself. I read his servant did. Man Friday.
B: Would you excuse me please? I'm trying to finish this. I've got to attend a lecture on it tomorrow.
A: Ooooh. Student, are you? Studying Shakespeare?
B: Amongst other things.
A: What are you going to do with that after you finish college, though?
B: What am I what?
A: what are you going to do with all that learning Shakespeare when you finish? What jobs are in that? I mean, with a trade you can do something, and in computers. I don't know much about computers. That Internet and that. But some fellas, I heard they makes about two hundred an hour. More even. That's good money. But you wouldn't make money like that reading books. It's like learning Latin. Mind you, lawyers knows Latin, and they makes money. Are you training to be a lawyer?
B: No, I'm training to be a chef. I like to make pies. I'm reading Titus Andronicus for recipes. Now if you'll excuse me I'll get back to my book.
(pause)
A: Yes, yes. Of course. Sorry.
(pause)
Didn't mean to disturb you.
(pause)
I mean, I should have thought.
(pause)
It must be irritating.
(pause)
I mean, when you're trying to read, and all.
(pause)
And someone keeps interrupting ----
B: EXACTLY!!!!!!
A: I mean, my wife pointed that out the other day: she said, I'm trying to read my stars here and you keep talking and I've been reading the same line six times --
B: I know how she feels!
A: -- and what's more, I've been readng Virgo by mistake, because, you see, my wife, she's a Libra, or well, she is and she isn't. She would have been alright reading Virgo because she was on the cusp, and in fact, sometimes she's Virgo and sometimes she's Libra, but I don't know much about it. Do you know about it? They were into all that astrology stuff in Shakespeare's time, weren't they? Witches and spells and whatnot --
B: WILL YOU BE QUIET!!!!!!!!!
A: There's no need to take that tone with me, young man. I'm only making polite conversation.
B: I DON'T WANT CONVERSATION!! I WANT TO READ MY BOOK!!!
A: Well read your bloomin' book then! What's stoppin' yer?
(pause)
So, what happens in this play then?
while others say it sings by bad design.
Smell the North Sea when you're on it. Hear
the whistling, feel the turbulence, get a hold
upon the flaking rail, greygreen, and look, down
where skinny gulls unfed screech out in flocks
making meagre bluish patterns on
the greenbrown sludging Wear, the steely tract
blowing metal frost into your face.
The bridge screams. Well I know, deep in the sense
of heart. Straddled across two nothingnesses
it curses all its weight. I will get out,
I will quit this bridge view, turn my back
on North Sea starving cull cry and head south.
Had she an inkling of what would follow, even then, or was she transposing her knowledge of following events onto her memory of her feelings of that moment? She wasn't certain. Trying to capture the memory of feeling seemed to her to be like trying to remember the thoughts that encircled the brain at the moment of waking from a dream that was still carrying on slightly.
She knew that it had, ironically, been Nigel all along who had encouraged her to take the course. She had been bored from day to day in the first couple of years after work brought them back from a stint in Singapore to their Essex hometown. Nigel was now commuting to London every day; the kids were at school and surprisingly well settled , but Penny's days had been empty, filled with fears that the old depression was coming back. The new house to her was box-like, 1980s built, spacious but cold and square. Everything she'd done to make the decor more homely had only accentuated the soullessness of the place. The antique chests of drawers and dining sets seemed like someone else's furniture to her, hoarded by possessive ghosts. And ha!, when she would go to visit Nigel's sister for daytime company (well, duty, she knew) she'd see the same decor, the same borrowed histories and hear her voice laugh emptily, echoing on beige matt walls to half-hearted gossip about people she didn't even know.
And yes, the course had more than filled a void. She physically felt her mind expand as she'd spent nights in the little study she'd designed for herself, with the pc and rapidly filling shelves of devoured books,
poring over Gillman's "The Yellow Wallpaper" for an assignment to be sent in to the tutor in the post, the following week. She'd stopped meeting the in-laws after about the second year of study; Nigel had mentioned once in the car, quite sternly on one brief moment of togetherness during a Saturday shopping trip, that it had been commented on that she'd seemed sullen on those last visits to his sister, not even smiling and looking bored. Nigel had added that she was turning strange when she rejoined that she was too happy to laugh these days. The kids had started to make noises in the back, to know what was going on and they'd spent the rest of the drive and day in Nigel's boiling silence.
She remembered studying in her room for that essay, the kids being long asleep, and Nigel still at some late night party with colleagues in London. He was at these nights more and more, but she by then was past caring. If he had been here, what would that have signified?
And then in the third year came the summer residential school in York. She'd drifted with her folders under her arm to breakfast each morning, through geese waddling across the rolling Heslington campus, past the Ouse brimming deeply the shadows of Langwith and Vanbrugh, and with other students laughing a new laugh she could laugh herself, deep with resonances of Fauvist canvasses, Yeats's mythologies, all the mysteries of a consciousness suggested in the language of willow rustle and grass glaze shimmerings.
And now, here, in the delicious shade of nodding chestnut boughs, a man in her embrace was looking deeply in her eyes, weaving her golden hair in fingertip tapestries of a beginning touch of love, and the river was lapping, the river was calling, the river was calling, a kiss, a kiss, a kiss, a kiss, the river, an ocean, the waves, a kiss, a kiss, and in that moment she remembered all, and her shoulders felt the press of duty, the dilemma of commitment against the recklessness of touch, the hopelessness of a moment. To kiss? To kiss?
If the edit facility were working, I'd change line four to
Of pulse and flight. Trail fire from your cere.
so i was saying i like the play it's my favorite of your things.
"B: WILL YOU BE QUIET!!!!!!!!!
A: There's no need to take that tone with me, young man. I'm only making polite conversation.
B: I DON'T WANT CONVERSATION!! I WANT TO READ MY BOOK!!!
A: Well read your bloomin' book then! What's stoppin' yer?
(pause)
So, what happens in this play then?"
nothing actually happens in the play. it is like an exercise in futility. the young man wants to read, the old man wants to have polite conversation. neither is able to accomplish his goal. therefore it's futile -- and i think some situations like this one are futile -- it's counter to each man's purpose for being there. and it actually ends at a good point. the young man screams impolitely and the old man continues to talk. absolutely nothing accomplished that either wanted to accomplish.
That's why I love Beckett.
In fact, I love talk radio more than Beckett. A host will belittle a caller for having poor listening skills and for just rehearsing what they're going to say next, after the host has finished pontificating and talking over the caller's original point.
so talk radio in the uk is much the same as talk radio in the usa
must be that the universal appeal of talk radio is in the chastisement of anyone who dares to call and debate an issue
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Yeah. I wonder why. I'm thinking, Talk radio came about in the 1970s when the BBC lost its radio broadcasting monopoly and commercial stations popped up. Commercial stations tend to be owned and run by conservatives, so the slightly more laid back or liberal talk radio hosts are going to get bogged down with presenting competitions, while the shock jocks and gobshites are allowed to rant, leashless.
I guess the same thing goes on everywhere. With the Internet I can sample US talk radio too. But wasn't there a left orientated station? One with Al Franken? I forget.