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.

Hello

Greetings friends, and the Internet. I know I haven't posted since the day we created this, it isn't even saved, but I'm posting now. Daniel and I (mostly I) decided that we should post on each day of the week other than Saturday, to accommodate a large group of people. We would post about one topic and it would basically be our views on them. If we do decide to go through with this I just want to tell  you all that Tuesdays and Fridays aren't that good for me. I hope everyone is well and you agree with this opinion :).
-Jakobes

Uber Sweaty D (Parody by the Princess)

A boy walks into a coffee shop that sells things like muffins and coffee. The boy has no name because then the story would get too personal. He doesn't have a face, and this is one of his biggest insecurities. The girl he is meeting with has a deep seated fear of loss and abandonment and death because she witnessed the murder of her father when she was 6, but they only beat around that bush with metaphors about ant homicides. The boy orders coffee because he's, well, at a coffee shop, so, like, why not, and the girl orders a poppyseed bagel. When the waiter brings over her bagel, she screams and throws it in his general direction because the seeds look uncannily like ants. The boy is confused, but tells her good afternoon anyway.
After lunch, they walk together back to his apartment and she laughs maniacally as she destroys anthills in the cracks of the sidewalks along the way. The boy is still incredibly confused, but says nothing save, "Hurry up, I'm going faster than you and I don't even have a face."
At his apartment, the boy leads the girl into his bedroom. They begin to touch each other sexually and when his hands find her chest she pulls back and says, "No, that feels weird." Again, he doesn't understand, and she blames it on his facelessness.
Then a giant mutant ant barges into the apartment, breaking everything in sight, and the girl faints, the boy gets eaten because he can't see it because he lacks a face, and the end.

A Proposal from Mom

Hey y'all.

Idea: Let's Google Hangout video chat (because we can do it with more than two people) sometime before school starts so that we can catch up and share some writing. I'm guessing that most of us have edited something from Kenyon or written new stuff since we got back (or that we will soon) and it'd be cool to continue the tradition of reading our stuff to each other. Also, I'm terribly afraid that we won't keep in touch well.

Whaddya think?

Another thing: None of my comments on this blog are saving. I'll be signed into my personal Google Account on Blogger, and I'll write a comment and say that I want to post as "Google Account", and then I press Publish, and then nothing happens. What am I doing wrong?

Leg Man and Bicep Boy - Episode 2 by Sweaty D

Come read the newest adventure of America's favorite crime fighters!


BTW, here's episode 1 too. In case you don't remember."

Variations on Endings by Mom (Yes, I wrote you all a poem.)

Variations on Endings

On returning home and having The Feels

July 6, 2014

I.

It is raining again.

The rain becomes beginnings,

becomes washing away,

covering up,

tears;

becomes wondering if that was all a dream.

II.

I haven’t showered at home yet.

I am still dirty with Kenyon’s sweat.

III.

I’ve got my raincoat now.

When I go out, I won’t need an umbrella.

But I want to need one.

(III.

When I go out,

I’ll be always Under Our Umbrellas.)

IV.

Hugs can only last so long.

You can only clutch someone’s T-shirt so hard.

I am puzzled, sometimes

by the intensity of a hug. It can say so much.

Or, perhaps, so little?

V.

I hope these tears that we have shed will seep into the soil,

will flood the desert cracks in our skin and weave our stories together.

I hope new stories will grow.

(If your itch to write about us could be placed on a scale of one to desert,

be the fucking Sahara.)

VI.

Good conversation is the best sauce.             

VI.

Breakfast is so lonely.

VI.

I find myself telling knock-knock jokes to milk.

VII.

I wish I could have said this then:

Don’t walk so fast.

Don’t lose your tears yet.

Listen to the gravel under your feet.

Pretend that it’s Sunday afternoon and we have nowhere to be

VIII.

but here.

Lie on the grass with me one last time.

This is not an end, this is back to the beginning.

Tell me your secrets

– no, we have not just met, we have always known each other –

and where you want to be in ten years.

Walk to breakfast with me.

Do not talk about school.

Do not talk about love.

Talk about the things that have caused you to experience a Bright Case of Idiopathic

Craniofacial Erythema.

Talk about books.

Talk about God.

Give me a metaphor.

IX.

Saying goodbye to you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Saying hello was the easiest.

X.

It’s fucking impossible not to hurt anything.

XI.

It was fucking beautiful to be hurt by the scream of the interstate upon leaving that place.

XII.

It was a “privilege to have my heart broken by you”.

(Sorry, I couldn’t resist.

Okay.

Stop.)

XIII.

Finally I fell in love with people for reasons other than sadness.

XIV.

If you see me sad,

assume it is a metaphor for how your absence feels.

Assume everything is a metaphor.

Why not?

The bad things will become bad metaphors, and,

in turn,

we will laugh at them.

XV.

Don’t stop feeling this. Bleed your sorrows onto the page.

XVI.

Your song will be stuck in my head for days.

XVII.

I am perpetually baffled by our personhood,

by our ability to

make things happen.

We will make stories happen.

Our story will continue on phones and notebook paper,

the pages of Infinite Jest and the blog that is now my home page.

And, someday, the fucking New York Times Best Sellers.

XVIII.