I want to see your faces...

... So we should plan another Google Hangout/Skype/whatever video chat thing over break. I''m not going anywhere, so any time except for the 21st, 23rd-25th, and before the 19th ('cause school) works for me. (Although if y'all aren't busy on the 24th and I could see your wonderful faces on my birthday, that would be a happy happy thing.)

REPLY TO THIS POST WITH YOUR THOUGHTS. It's not urgent :)

- Mom

Letters, and Mom is wondering where you all are

I miss you all terribly. I hope you're having a wonderful Thanksgiving break and that the change of seasons is treating you well. I know we've all been busy, and that probably accounts for the rather dire lack of blog posts, but I would still love to know what's going on in your lives! SO everybody reply with THREE random things associated with your life at this moment. Here are mine:

1.) I am so so so so close to being completely applied to college.
2.) NaNoWriMo.
3.) I have less than a month left of not being an adult. Holy shit. I'm so old.

Now the really important part:

I propose that we each post our favorite word/phrase/sentence/part of the letters we wrote ourselves at the end of Kenyon. (Leah and Rami, not sure if you did this...?) Mine was a collection of "remember what it's like to...", so I've pulled out my favorites/the ones I want to share with you:

"Remember this feeling... Remember the dancing shadows on grass. Remember the deafening sound of gravel... Remember what it's like to sit under a clear sky peppered with stars, to feel the ghosts of laughter and funny stories and secrets and beautiful words (and Christmas past). Remember what it's like to feel cared for... to have people understand you just the way you said it, because that was the only way it could be said... Remember what it's like to feel cliche and infinite. Remember what it's like to feel lonely together."

THANK YOU ALL FOR BEING REALLY COOL AND TALENTED PEOPLE THAT STUMBLED INTO MY LIFE <3

A Message from Mom

Hey Daniel, don't get ebola.

Hey Everybody, survive those college apps (or the first half of junior year)!

Write. Smile. Laugh. Look at pictures of beluga whales.

(But actually my friend and I did this in Physics class last week and thus were inspired to do our Physics problems.)

I guarantee this will cheer you up if you need it.

<3

Do This

Hey everyone.

Do this. Click it. Read about it. Write stuff. Apply.

Or just look at it, see what you think. No pressure.

But do it.

I woke up this morning and wrote about shit

Hey y'all, Mom here. I wrote this morning, semi inspired by Fight Club, which I'm a little more than halfway through, and which I think is awesome. I don't really have a title yet, but it does involve Literal Shit. It's just kind of a fun thing, so post feedback if you want. I'm just curious what your reactions are :).

Have a good day!

Mom isn't good at titles

So this is what's up:

1.) I've spent my entire day working at a bake sale for Green Club (of which I'm the president). And we've made lots of DOUGH. (Haha, get it, 'cause baking...)

2.) I keep getting inappropriately anxious about things. Especially college, the common app essay, not writing or reading enough, planning when to finish Infinite Jest, losing my friends, homework, college, getting enough sleep, college, being a person, college...

3.) I had a brownie for breakfast today. This is very unusual.

4.) The Oberlin College rep visited today...he wasn't very interesting...and I was really nice to him, and showed him around, but our college counselor isn't here today....but the guy doesn't even know my name.

5.) I will be at Kenyon OCTOBER 23/4/5, with my friend and my teacher, who is a Kenyon alum. You guys should totally visit at the same time...(ahem, Logan).

6.) Our fall play is October 16-18th, and once again I have been cast as the girl with guy problems; i.e. I'm 26 and have a 7 year old child and his father only visits every year or so. (He's basically the same character as the dad in Boyhood. But not as good of a person.)

7.) I haven't been writing much :/.

8.) I FINISHED INFINITE JEST LAST SUNDAY. I was on the last 30-40 pages for a good two weeks because I was worried about how emotionally and intellectually empty I would feel after finishing it...but yeah, it was AMAZING, and I'm rereading the beginning now.

9.) Yeah, pretty emotionally torn now though.

10.) Homecoming this weekend, yay!

11.) I thought I had more to say.

12.) LEGIT IMPORTANT THING: I'm doing an independent study this fall term, and it's on the role of religion and science in literature. I will be posting here and also asking for advice. Post with more details about that coming soon (hopefully tonight).

13.) Let's all go to Houston!

14.) You should all see Guardians of the Galaxy. IT'S HILARIOUS.

Hey, Mom isn't dead

HEY GUYS. I'm still here. Legit blog post coming very VERY soon (like I've written it in my head a million times). But first, Infinite Jest readers, watch this music video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xJpfK7l404I.

A Poem Thing by The Princess

Dear

This, dear
Is your reminder than even though the sun comes and goes with itself
The moon remains
Tender, scarred, unchanged
While the sky rests, unheeding, in it's curve.
This, darling
Is your notice that you shan't neglect the stars
Both ripe and crude
Who have served as guides and mirrors in their days.
Do not forget which constellations have wiped your tears
And which will wish you Godspeed as they wipe them
Again
Every time the rigid atmosphere
Tries to capture your attention
With its perfected façade

I wrote a thing - Sweaty D

It's a "Why I Write" thing for my Creative Writing. They're fun to make; you should try it!
So...how's school for you? Working on anything cool? Any birthday requests *cough* Leah *cough*?

Hahaha - Sweaty D

Adolescent Poetry generator

Wait, what happened to the font here?

Some Poems by Mom

Hiiiii I wrote some poems. The topic was supposed to be summer.

I don't need serious feedback on these in particular, but I would really appreciate some feedback on them just to improve my general poetry writing.

1.) What did you like/dislike?

2.) Which lines or phrases stood out to you? Why? What seemed awkward or confusing?

3.) Did you notice any symbolism? (Don't worry if you don't.)

4.) When does school start for ya?

5.) What do you usually eat for breakfast when you're at home?


Waking Thoughts of Summer

I thought this might be insanity, 

this state in which I am floating above the clouds.

I thought I might sing out my window

let the fields tell me what I need

in rainsoaked,

hackneyed verse.

I thought I might skin my knees today,

and then maybe you would love me more.

I thought I might tear the books apart

so that I could reorder their pages

into something that doesn’t make me cry.

This I thought I might do

in a room with transparent walls

so that you would have to watch.

I thought I might kidnap the sun

so that I could make her turn her back to me;

I am so tired

of this nauseous brightness.

Some June mornings,

my dreams continue after I wake up.

They writhe in my shadow all day.

This waking sleepfulness won’t stop.

I thought I might sleep until the leaves fall,

but you took my hand and led me to an empty field.

I thought I might drown in the stream there,

but you found a four-leaf clover,

doused my fingertips in the soft touches of tall grass,

and reminded me that summer only lasts so long.

After you caught me trying to cook summer

There is chocolate on my feet. Cinnamon

in my hair. Vanilla between my fingers.

I don’t need sugar when I’m around you;

I just appreciate it more.

This August sun has melted the chocolate in my soul;

I am drained of it.

We used to say,

“Chocolate fixes everything.”

But do not be trapped,

don’t mix yourself into my recipe.

I want you to run, take the wind for a walk my darling,

I know how to deal with my own despair.

There is cinnamon in my hair and I can’t wash it out.

Rain doesn’t help, nor do tears,

and we’re out of vanilla.

Take me to the edge of the bridge

and hold my hand while I look down

and think what it would feel like to jump.

This will make me all the more sure

that I don’t want to jump,

because I want you, all of you darling,

spreading like syrup around me; hold me

until the walls break.

The windows cut maps into your shoulders

when they break from your flailing arms.

I will trace the maps

with cinnamon fingers,

and find my way to you with a blue pen.

The scars from the broken glass will heal,

but that blue route will stay inked on you forever.

In the mornings, I’ll sing out an open window,

but the birds and the neighbors will be deaf to my call.

When the door closes on your arrival,

you will stretch a chocolate smile.

Summer will have passed, and the sun

will be too far away to melt it.

You will hold my lungs open for breath,

and pluck my vocal chords

into the kind of love song no one can ignore.

What's this? A story about a kid with family issues? Must be a story by Sweaty D

Charlie, or The World Is A Majestically Cruel Place
I got the idea after listening to this by David Foster Wallace

Also, I listened to To Be Kind by Swans a lot when I was writing this. You should check it out if you want. It's weird.

READ THE FOLLOWING AFTER YOU FINISH READING THE PIECE:

Feedback things:
1. Tonal issues. I wrote this over the course of several days, and I usually have trouble with keeping tone the same between writing sessions. Do this the tone seem, to you, to be pretty consistent throughout? Where does it lapse?

2. Image. This piece has a lot to do with what the character's are doing rather than where they are doing it. Do you feel this is a good choice? Or do you feel I should do a bit more world-building? Why? Do you have any suggestions for details to add?

3. What sentences stick out at ya?

4. What're you working on?

5. What's your favorite color? Mine's blue.

It's here! It's finally here! - Sweaty D

http://www.kenyonreview.org/workshops/young-writers/young-writers-workshop-session-one-readings/

Part 1 of x - Jack Hammers

Let x be any integer between 2 and y, such that y is itself any reasonable integer.

Alright, first post guys. It's the first draft and I'm going to finish the other parts before I come back to fix it. Feedback would really be appreciated!

Okay, so some questions to guide critiques, feel free to answer all, none, or any of them:

1. What themes, symbols, and characterization do you see, and what is your understanding of them?

2. What questions do you have about it, and what (if at all) are you confused about? Should I add anything to fix these?

3. Which parts or sentences do you think should be removed?

4. Do you feel like I'm hitting you over the head with a large stick trying to drive any points home?

5. Is it interesting?

6. What are your recommendations for editing the piece?

Link to Story

 Thanks, friends! And something to get you interested in part 2: it's inspired by the old aphorism "when in doubt, write about 14th century plague doctors".

JackHammers' super cool thing

Hey guys, JackHammers here, and Leah just sent me like the most awesome thing ever (the coconut doesn't count, sorry) for my birthday. She wanted me to tape it, too. So yeah. Here you go, dumb people. 

Unboxing


You guys are the best

Hey, let's make things seem a little less dead 'round here! Fun Prompt Within! - Sweaty D

Ok, write for 3 minutes. Preferably in the comment box thing, but it doesn't really matter. Don't think about anything before you write. This isn't a place to start a story you've been thinking about. This isn't a place to post a previously written poem so you'll seem smart. This is a place to just spout out words into sentences. Just write the first thing in your head, then the second, the third, fourth, et cetera. But ONLY WRITE FOR 3 MINUTES. After 3 minutes is up, STOP WRITING and post what you have written.

It might be crap. Scratch that, it's probably going to be crap. But it'll feel good like all craps should.

It can be a poem, a fiction story, a grocery list, a collection of nouns. I don't care. Just do it.

Two poems I wrote, and one poem I like. - Sweaty D

I recently re-watched Dead Poet's Society. This clip is my favorite scene from the movie, and it's also a pretty decent poem. I just think it's inspiring. What are some poems you like?

So yeah, I wrote these. You can read them. That'd be nice. I don't really have any specific guidelines for feedback, so tell me anything you want to. Also, I need a title for that second one. Thanks as always, 

Sweat D.

1.

Your Children

Your children are in the streets again,

Dragging themselves,

Mouths agape,

Into the dirt.

We are all poor historians.

I can hear the shuffling of papers

But not the turning of tracks.

Where are the heavenly wings?

The fiery guards?

How long will You let the bastards stomp?

The veil is now long gone

And torn down the middle.

Will the war ever be won?

The stars you showed are now white dwarves.

They have kept themselves

Clean for the wedding night.

Is Nietzsche correct?

They are waiting for the consummation.

The anointing oil is stale from stagnation.

When will You resurrect Solomon?

It is a graveyard there now,

Littered with the blood 

of my heavenly cousins.

When will You love the ones

Bound by law?

Is your mercy finite?

Why is Your brow so wrinkled?

Where is the promised heel?

Is the carpenter at His whet-stone?

How long are Your knives?

I remember the double-edged sword.

I am knocking on Your door

As You have requested.

There are marks from my knuckles

And my doubtful wedding band.

Their jaws are sore from wailing.

My knees are sore from prayer.

Show me Your back.

I need to see Your scars.

Do You understand?

2.

(currently no title)

Take me to the edge of the cliff

And throw me down

Into the kind of love adults would call rebellion.

No one, not even the moon,

Will know if we will jump.

I’ve never felt the feeling of falling.

Waves are crashing against the rocks below.

I wonder what flying is like.

I suppose I can ask the moon.

Is it like dancing?

I am so bad at dancing,

I would probably die.

Is this not how we define love?

As a thing you would die twice for

Without thinking?

Moon, you are of no help.

Can I ask you then,

Cliff-hanger?

Are you listening to me?

You are hearing my voice,

But my words, to you,

Must be like music.

You must be dancing.

Teach me please.

While the moon watches over us,

We dance down toward the rocks.

I think I can see the moon smiling.

Moon,

Let us die at least once.

A thousand tiny deaths,

Please,

Without thinking.

A beginning by Ramadan

Hello, dumb people of our earth. So, I've been writing this thing since I got back from Kenyon, but, because I am such a horribly slow writer, I'm still not done with it.
So! What this means is that, because I still want to contribute to our wonderful blog, I figured I should post something else that I want to work on. Here is that thing. It's only a beginning, but I'm gonna give it to you all anyways. Because I love you so much. Tell me what you think.

(Insert Title Here)

He was the type of man who loved his own mustache. Self-absorbtion was Toph's game, and he did it quite well. He took pride in his narcissism; like the watch passed down from father to son, it had been other's before it had been his, but he adored it just the same.

  Windows were a particular point of interest for Toph. They were a sort of on the go self-checkout, to be examined whenever a quick fix of self-confidence was needed. He would stop, smiling at his reflection in the way reserved only for images of himself, making delicate adjustments to the robust entirety of hair that stretched across his upper lip. Anyone unlucky enough to be on the other side of this makeshift mirror would find themselves to be stared down, fixed with a gaze so intense and a mustache so perfect that they would often find themselves compelled to move. Perhaps to a different spot behind whatever window it was they so helplessly looked out of, or perhaps to escape the window altogether. They were scared, and understandably so. Anyone would be, faced with a mustache like that. 

  Mornings were wonderful. Knitted in a way that suggested "familial christmas gift", or at the very least "birthday present from grandma", Toph kept a pillow on his bed that he woke up every morning looking at. To remind him who he was. Brushing sleep from his eyes with nonchalance, Toph read, emblazoned in pink script letters, "Every day when I wake up, I experience an exquisite joy - the joy of being Toph Sanderson," and started his day.  

...

That's all I got. I want to continue it, but I'd love any advice on where that continuing should go. 

Feedback

Hello dears,

The Princess and I (ie Mom) have been talking about the need for feedback on the stuff we post here. Perhaps some sort of outline of feedback structure/expectations would be helpful? I looked up some good feedback questions and this site has some cool ones. Of course there's always the sandwich method for critiquing, but we all know how I feel about sandwiches (no, really, I don't care, but I thought it would be nice to have more creative guidelines than that).

Hey look, it's a sandwich (okay fine, strictly speaking it's a wrap) from the Gambier Deli. And it wasn't even that expensive!

However, I firmly believe that our sandwich critiques, should we choose to make those, will be of more than Gambier-Deli-expensive-sandwich quality. 

Other things to think about:

• What format should we give critiques in? Comments (won't work for me now)? Posts? Shared Google docs? 
• Should we all be expected to give feedback on all writing posted?
• Should the writer ask questions when they post writing, to guide the critique?
• Furthermore, how often should we be expected to post, and when? 
• Will we post creative writing every time, or are updates on our lives/general rants about life/books/TV/people/sandwiches okay?
• Should we provide each other with possible prompts/topics/challenges (that's Logan's word)?

If anybody doesn't want this to be formalized so much, speak up. I think that holding ourselves to some sort of structure and to our fellow bloggers' expectations will really help us all keep writing :).

Also, is anybody checking this blog like every chance they get, or is that just me? (I'm proud to say I've been here more often than Facebook in the last couple weeks.)

Sorry if I'm writing too much. I just really miss you all and I'm experiencing some Augustus Waters-esque fear that this little project will slip into oblivion if we don't create some guidelines.

THOUGHTS PLEASE :D <3

- Mom

Mom's Kenyon Writing

Hey look, I'm cool and I finally put all my Kenyon writing into a Google doc so that you can enjoy/despise it. I put a lot in there, so feel free not to read the whole thing!

Here it is. Rawr.

Cold by Mom

**This was kind of an experimental piece, inspired by Daniel's story about the X-acto knives. I don't need much feedback, but a bit would be appreciated :).

I was trying the DFW-esque thing where you say things that are seemingly random/insignificant/disconnected, but aren't. Did it work, ish? Was it too choppy? What parts stood out, good and (especially) bad? Also, how's the beginning? I'm starting to hate it.**


The moon is sharper than his knives tonight. The lack of light tastes like tears. He has erased the phrase “tortured soul” from his vocabulary. His eyes are dry. His phone has been off all day, and he and I both know that his girlfriend has called him multiple times already. He isn’t thinking about her. She’s moving to Paris for a year. He has decided not to be jealous of the French boys there, with their accents. His toes are cold. He thinks how beautiful it would be to hurt. He can’t smell anything. The streetlight is on outside. Where are the streetlights? No one ever thinks about streetlights. His knives must be cold. He brushes them with his fingers, like the knives are baby birds. He has always wished he could save fallen baby birds. He cracks his knuckles, one by one. This way, it takes more time. He stares at the lid of the box. Its faux leather covering is mocking him. The pasta he had for lunch was not fully cooked. He hasn’t had coffee in three days, and he’s not sure if he misses it. His door is unlocked. His clothes are folded, but not well. All the appliances are unplugged. He doesn’t want to waste taxes. Two winters ago, he burned his journals for warmth. The significance of this is that there aren’t many of his thoughts for people to pick through. He raises his right hand, lets it float in the air for a moment, like he is reading a poem out loud and its music is shaping his body. His hand comes to rest on a knife in the center of the box, a medium-sized one. He thinks its handle will fit well in his palm. He tests it. It’s moderately perfect. He realizes that he wouldn’t be holding the knife this way if he goes through with it. He thinks, begins to move it to his arm; no, that angle would not work. He puts it back. Something light would be better. He likes heavy things. He’s trying to get himself not to like this. He swallows. His mouth tastes like hemlock; what hemlock might taste like. He picks up the second smallest knife. The curtains are a little bit open. The glint of the metal in the moonlight looks like his girlfriend’s silver earrings. Shit, now that will always be in his head when he sees those earrings. He smiles. He loves her. This knife is good. He rubs his left forearm with his knuckles. He’s always been athletic, and his veins are popping out. Too easy. He almost laughs. Why would it be so easy? He doesn’t laugh because he knows what makes it hard: it’s the not really wanting to be sitting here with this open box of knives and the clothes folded and the appliances unplugged; it’s doubt; it’s having things to hold him back. He knows – he’s been here before. It’s almost time for the cherry blossoms to bloom. He isn’t sure what gets him out of bed in the morning, but there is something. He holds the knife over his arm. He rests the blade on his wrist. He breathes, closes his eyes, trying to feel poetry or pain in the cold blade. He is scared that the blade is too sharp and will cut without pressure, and he draws it away without opening his eyes. He opens his eyes, puts the knife back, shuts the box. Not this year, again. I nod. Good.

Baking en Espanol (sans tilde) with Ramadan and The Princess

Internal Affairs by Sweaty D

Hey, dumb people. I finished this one yesterday, and I'm letting it breathe for a bit before I attack it with a red pen. It was inspired by an old warehouse I explored with a friend. The warehouse was covered in graffiti and stuff, and I found an empty bottle of Zoloft there. So yeah.

Link to the piece.

Let me know what you think!

1. What is the worst part?
2. What's the best part?
3. Why is it bad?
4. What should I take out or add?

(^hey, look. I rhymed.)

The Gracious Gunman

(The Princess)

Hey. Feedback is greatly appreciated, though I understand if there is just too much hustle bustle in those vigorous lives of yours.
Tell me what you think.
But really.

Let me paint a picture for you. I’m sitting in a beat up 1994 Ford Tempo. The air is on high. The windows are shut and locked. I’m in a gas station parking lot. It has 6 pumps, all self-serv. My left leg is shaking. Scratch that, both legs are shaking. I’m too tired to be here, but I am. My palm is sweaty around the gun in my hand. I have power, but really I have none.

I turn the car off. I swig from a vodka bottle that is 90% water. The trees outside sway, which means there’s a breeze, so I step out of the car to catch it before it passes. I lock the door behind me. I’m enveloped in humidity. The trees lied.

By now I presume it’s past 9, because I left at 5 and Pennsylvania is 4 hours away and I've been sitting here for a while. The road is barely occupied. In fact, it’s barely visible. The streetlights are dull. They have no power, but they think they do. I try to tune out the crickets. I focus on the trees. They sway. They lie. They lie as they sway, because there’s no wind down here.

I shove the gun in my back pocket. I walk toward the mini mart. In there is four men, two women. Or, more accurately: four boys, two girls, because they think they’re tough and have power, but they don’t. No, they don’t.

I find the freezer section and feign interest in the selection. A blonde girl chews gum obnoxiously loud. I wander toward the next aisle. Another blonde, taller, stays still in front of me. She's examining something. She doesn’t notice me.

“Hey, let’s get these." A boy at the register looks up.

“Don’t we have enough?”

A different boy, shorter and skinner, says, “Yeah. No new shit. Aight?”

I walk around the girl, into the next aisle. The girl scoffs. She throws the object on the counter anyway.

A brunette boy in a letter jacket adds to the pile.

“Why the hell not?”

“Cause we’re saving, asshole.” That was the first boy.

A third girl with brick red hair joins them. I watch and stroll to aisle four.

“What for?” she says.

They all look about 20.

The second boy talks again. “Fair enough. The account is deep.”

“That’s because it’s not yours.” I’m not looking.

“So.”

“He’s solid in his alibi, anyway.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

“How much we got?”
“A good 500.”

“Fine.”

“Come on! On me!”

Someone’s playful shriek pieces my ear. It’s the sound of power.

“Get that.”

“Ew.”

“Shut up.” Well, seeming power.

“This.”

“No.”

“Yeah!” They think they are boundless, free, powerful.

“Stop. The other one.”

“Throw it here.” Don’t we all? Don’t we all?

“Ready?” Ready.

“That.”

“The green.” Who will tell them the truths? Who will set the trees straight?

“Come.”

“Come on.”

“Let’s go.”

“Let’s go.”

“Grab that.”

“Dude.”

“Okay.”

“Woo!” I’ll help you all.

“Got it?”

“The bag, man.” I’ll save you.

The noises begin to fade, the door chimes once.

I cock the trigger. The noises cease.

“What was that.” Like a statement, just like that, clueless and mindful, but not really either.

“So ungrateful,” I say. “So, so ungrateful.”

“Sir-“

“Kid.”

I put the trigger to the brunette’s temple.

“Let me help you with that.”

I take the bags. The girls glance at the cashier. He is crouched behind the counter, as irrelevant as he is helpful.

“I don’t want your money.”

“Ready?”

The kid’s eyes are made 90% of fear. The remaining 10 is everything else, greed, power. Or lack thereof.

The boy is shaking now. They all are. This is good. I see it in all their eyes, wishing they’d been more aware, regretting all those times they talked back, cheated, lied, like the trees.

“Listen.”

The gun is unloaded, but they don’t know that. I have all the power, and also none of it.

I wipe my upper lip.

“I will make you grateful.”

“So, so grateful.”
I have all the power.

I pull the trigger.

“Go.” They bolt.

But really none of it.