I dont wanna be frie-ee-ends!
(I win Ming)
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
This Is Going To Violate A Little Bit Of Copyright, But…
When I see a man, I want to smack him in the face. It’s so much pleasure to pound on a man’s face.
I sit in my room doing nothing.
Then—someone’s come over to see me; he’s knocking on my door. I say, “Come in!” He comes in and says: “Greetings! It’s great that I’ve caught you at home.” And that’s when I knock in his face, and then I let my boot fly into his crotch, too. My guest falls over from the terrible pain. And I give him a heel to the eyes! Like, don’t be whoring around when you’re not invited!
Or else, there’s also another way: I offer my guest to take a cup of tea with me. The guest accepts, sits down at the table, drinks his tea and starts telling me some story. I make it seem like I’m listening to him with fascination—I nod my head, sigh, make my eyes wide with surprise, and laugh. The guest, flattered by my attentions, gets more and more animated.
I calmly pour myself a whole cup of boiling water and throw the boiling water in the guest’s face. My guest springs to his feet grasping his face. Then I tell him: “There is no more benevolence in my soul. Get out!” And I push my guest out the door.
—Daniil Kharms
I sit in my room doing nothing.
Then—someone’s come over to see me; he’s knocking on my door. I say, “Come in!” He comes in and says: “Greetings! It’s great that I’ve caught you at home.” And that’s when I knock in his face, and then I let my boot fly into his crotch, too. My guest falls over from the terrible pain. And I give him a heel to the eyes! Like, don’t be whoring around when you’re not invited!
Or else, there’s also another way: I offer my guest to take a cup of tea with me. The guest accepts, sits down at the table, drinks his tea and starts telling me some story. I make it seem like I’m listening to him with fascination—I nod my head, sigh, make my eyes wide with surprise, and laugh. The guest, flattered by my attentions, gets more and more animated.
I calmly pour myself a whole cup of boiling water and throw the boiling water in the guest’s face. My guest springs to his feet grasping his face. Then I tell him: “There is no more benevolence in my soul. Get out!” And I push my guest out the door.
—Daniil Kharms
Thursday, February 4, 2010
RAP And PAP
Do y'all think one is limited in their potential artistic profoundness (PAP) by one's parents, and their realized artistic profoundness (RAP)? Been reading a lot of great poetry lately, which has caused me to think a lot about my own PAP, and the concept of PAP in general. Of course I would like to become a writer of profundity, whose hard-won technical skills have allowed him to turn his eye to the creation of sheer, irrefutable art, in the end reaching or even surpassing the pinnacles of past poetry (PPP).
I seem to try to position my writing diametrically opposite my perception of my dad's writing. This must be partly because I'm his kid, and nothing he can do can be great, or at least not intentionally so. Also because he is, after all, a writer only as a hobby, and if there's anything the future will require of us, it may as well be the existence of professional writers. Maybe I need to recognize the total validity of my parents' RAP instead of belittling or denying it; maybe I need to build off of their RAP so that I can someday achieve my own PAP.
I think by RAP I am just meaning the lives of each of my parents if they were reduced to the embodiment of some considered artistic vision. Then PAP, or perhaps it should be "perceived PAP" (or PePAP), has to be the part of my ability to create great art which is dependent on my parents in the same way that my hairline or my cholesterol is dependent on my parents.
I admit it might seem like art is not the same as a hairline, yet, it is.
I seem to try to position my writing diametrically opposite my perception of my dad's writing. This must be partly because I'm his kid, and nothing he can do can be great, or at least not intentionally so. Also because he is, after all, a writer only as a hobby, and if there's anything the future will require of us, it may as well be the existence of professional writers. Maybe I need to recognize the total validity of my parents' RAP instead of belittling or denying it; maybe I need to build off of their RAP so that I can someday achieve my own PAP.
I think by RAP I am just meaning the lives of each of my parents if they were reduced to the embodiment of some considered artistic vision. Then PAP, or perhaps it should be "perceived PAP" (or PePAP), has to be the part of my ability to create great art which is dependent on my parents in the same way that my hairline or my cholesterol is dependent on my parents.
I admit it might seem like art is not the same as a hairline, yet, it is.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Poem (not mine)
No me toques
estoy contaminada
no me beses
estoy contaminada
estoy contaminada
no me beses
estoy contaminada
no me muerdas imbécil!
estoy contaminada!!
estoy contaminada!!
--Nicanor Parra
Monday, January 25, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
Monday, January 4, 2010
Collegian Column #1
I'm going to go ahead and re-publish my first column here, because the original that Ari typed into the computer (thanks Ari!) contained some changes made by the Collegian editors, which, no surprise, I don't approve of. I was originally thinking of calling this column "Lost In The Andes." Okay,
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I will be gone from Willamette this semester. I will be traveling through South America for three months and one week with five Willamette students and one from Knox College. When people ask me why I’m going, I get uneasy, because I start to think of all the things I hope, but don’t dare say.
What I would like is to be able to state my purpose and intentions, nobly, rather than to blanch at this embarrassing cataract of malformed and dubious longings and aspirations that swells up occasionally.
Some of these are hopes for myself: Maybe I’ll gain a new perspective. Maybe I’ll get in shape again. (Again?) Maybe I’ll learn Spanish (unlikely). Maybe I’ll learn Kichwa (much less likely still). Maybe I’ll turn into a man! Oh god…
But even worse are my expectations for the land and the people, the ignoble byproducts of a life of media saturation. They’re an unholy gumbo of “The Three Caballeros,” “Aguirre, the Wrath of God,” “Romancing the Stone,” sundry Wikipedia entries, Tintin, and more Disney comic book adventure stories than I care to count.
I’m looking forward to seeing cute little gauchitos, and cannibals with sharp teeth and glistening yellow eyes. Perhaps a lost cache of molded Incan gold. Has El Dorado been discovered?
Enough of all this foolishness! Of course I know the world isn’t really like that. Maybe that’s why I’m going? Because I don’t know what it’s like? Anyway. In subsequent columns (which hopefully won’t be so heavy) I’ll report on our own South American adventures, as we make our way south from Quito to Santiago, and attempt to fix some meaning to this trip beyond that of a vacation.
-+-+-+-+-
I will be gone from Willamette this semester. I will be traveling through South America for three months and one week with five Willamette students and one from Knox College. When people ask me why I’m going, I get uneasy, because I start to think of all the things I hope, but don’t dare say.
What I would like is to be able to state my purpose and intentions, nobly, rather than to blanch at this embarrassing cataract of malformed and dubious longings and aspirations that swells up occasionally.
Some of these are hopes for myself: Maybe I’ll gain a new perspective. Maybe I’ll get in shape again. (Again?) Maybe I’ll learn Spanish (unlikely). Maybe I’ll learn Kichwa (much less likely still). Maybe I’ll turn into a man! Oh god…
But even worse are my expectations for the land and the people, the ignoble byproducts of a life of media saturation. They’re an unholy gumbo of “The Three Caballeros,” “Aguirre, the Wrath of God,” “Romancing the Stone,” sundry Wikipedia entries, Tintin, and more Disney comic book adventure stories than I care to count.
I’m looking forward to seeing cute little gauchitos, and cannibals with sharp teeth and glistening yellow eyes. Perhaps a lost cache of molded Incan gold. Has El Dorado been discovered?
Enough of all this foolishness! Of course I know the world isn’t really like that. Maybe that’s why I’m going? Because I don’t know what it’s like? Anyway. In subsequent columns (which hopefully won’t be so heavy) I’ll report on our own South American adventures, as we make our way south from Quito to Santiago, and attempt to fix some meaning to this trip beyond that of a vacation.
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