According to The Answer Bag . . . "fiction is a made up person , place or thing and non-fiction is history or something that is really true using real people's names real places and real things”(actually, this is according to a user named “preen teen me” -- eek! Should we quote preen teen me? Is that illegal?) Really? What is "real" any way??
The Answer Bag
Stableboy says: “Fiction admits to being a bunch of lies!” (and then I think he ran off with preen teen me on a wannabe stallion and they had fictional babies!)
Mister Rogers takes the wimpy way out (surprised?) and quotes WikiPedia (which conveniently uses the term to define the term. “What IS fiction? Why, it’s fiction of course!” “What is nonfiction? Why, it’s truth!” But when is “the truth” never shady . . . ? And isn't fiction just as fabulous - if not more so - at illuminating truths?):
Fictional works – novels, short stories, fables, fairy tales, films, comics, interactive fiction, animation, video games – may include or reference factual occurrences. The term is also often used synonymously with literature and more specifically fictional prose. In this sense, fiction refers only to novels or short stories and is often divided into two categories, popular fiction (e.g., science fiction or mystery fiction) and literary fiction (e.g., Marcel Proust or William Faulkner).
Non-fiction is an account or representation of a subject which is presented as fact. This presentation may be accurate or not; that is, it can give either a true or a false account of the subject in question. However, it is generally assumed that the authors of such accounts believe them to be truthful at the time of their composition. Non-fiction is one of the two main divisions in writing, particularly used in libraries, the other being fiction. However, non-fiction need not be written text necessarily, since pictures and film can also purport to present a factual account of a subject.
. . . So, a false account of the subject in question - even though the writer/storyteller thinks it's truth - is nonfiction? What do you think? The theory of relativity? Don't tell the courts!
Allikatzpop tries to get snarky/political by saying “libertism and conservatism” but misspells things. If we go in order of the question, then it would seem that he is saying that "libertism" is fiction which makes absolute sense seeing as the word is not an actual word.
Frances Romances gives my favorite answer: "About a $10.00 difference. No rubber checks please."
Although I would argue that the difference is only about $2 -- sometimes, $.50.
You think THIS is funny? Try asking The Answer Bag “What is truth?” (The answerbag.com is one of those awful, highly unreliable sites upon which anybody can put their two cents in on the answers to pointless questions. Fun stuff. I'm thinking The Answer Bag is secretly calling for poetry . . . )
(please note: pic up top of "The Answer Bag" was not intended to offend anyone should it remind them of a family member or friend. I simply image-searched "old hag" and this was one of the first pictures that showed up. I imagined The Answer Bag as a character who thinks she knows it all and who would kick your ass if you pissed her off. That is all. I think she's quite beautiful. Peace.)
to improve this, I think I'll have to consider more of Erik's need for prestige . . . I tried)
Erik Samworth, 27, male
Scandinavian Catholic Lawyer
6'9", jet black corse and thick hair, engaging hazel eyes
divorced, Dad is a pastor, Mom is a psychiatrist, no siblings
Collects bottle caps and newspapers, loves snowboarding, sushi and the color teal
Has a partner named Steven
Biggest dream? to rule a city
Biggest need? prestige
Biggest secret? deviant sexual desires
Is most comfortable home on the toilet, naked. Loves Polka music.
Well, now what? I’ve been in enough of these stifling rooms, stared at enough blank walls, enough polished oak trim. If they didn’t have suede sofas in their centers, then they had plain benches for kneeling – and always one, little darkened window. The illusion of some sun, but nothing distracting. If this doc expects me to confess in so many words, if he can’t read my problem on my face, he’s up for another thing. Confess. Confess. Confess. I heard it daily – nearly every other hour – from my parents. When I was a boy, instead of making me sit in the corner, they sat me on a chair, and then they both stared at me, waiting patiently for my confession. Now, Erik, what have you done? “God is listening,” father said. And God’s forgiving but he’s also angered quickly. And in the other accusing face, God was mother. God was always watching. I can feel her eyes on my back now, here in this little room. She might be on the other side of those dusty venetian blinds.
This doc has to know that it’s wrong to make a man come into his office and ASK for something like this when he’s otherwise tall and strong and healthy. The pills sold late at night on television don’t work, so I need a prescription for the stronger stuff, a cure, something to help the blood flow as well as it should be flowing for a twenty-seven year old – if you know what I mean. That’s as close as coming to a confession as I get. The doc has to know that it’s not right for a man to throw himself under the eye of scrutiny. He’ll want me to say I’m dysfunctional, weak, problematic. He might want me to flop it out. And it’s a god damn power trip for the doctor. He could care less of my dysfunctional Scandinavian salami (as father never called it). Me either. I don’t need it. I’ll be damned if I’m staying.
I can’t make myself leave. I’ve already put this paper gown on. I wish I was home on the toilet. Give me my downtown office and an open window. Give me my legal secretaries – “Yes, sir” they repeat and repeat. Give me a bite of sushi. My Grampy’s old Polka music.
What would my father think? Mother could write me this prescription herself. But who would ask his mother for it? And this low ceiling, so stifling.
I miss my clients. I miss Steven. He is the only person I could ever kiss who stood right at my lip level. We are a pair. We scare my clients, together, towering over them. But Steven is so kind. He worried about losing my law office money, so he stopped coming downtown. This was good because my parents were seeing too much of him, passing the two of us on the streets, catching the two of us eating lunch in the Market. I won’t be confessing another thing to them, ever. Ever. They can go on confessing to each other and breaking bread like it’s flesh. I don’t care. I’ll have Steven. At least as long as I can rally up the courage to ask for this pill. I might work myself up to punching someone as soon as this door opens.
Not even one newspaper in this room. The room smells vaguely of Pine Sol. And this bed is covered with a nice shade of teal blue vinyl – and the pictures on the walls – the doc’s degrees and whatnot – all have the same color in their frames. It’s relaxing. The color reminds me of the sky in December when Steven and I went snowboarding. The scent of pine illuminates it all. We grappled that mountain. We came away with half of the thing stuck to our boots. We made love in a makeshift igloo. We melted the snow under our parkas as they laid under our asses. We invited another couple in, a man and a woman, my idea. Around the fireplace at the hotel, they seemed beautiful, innocent but hungry, and friendly enough. Steven hadn’t been happy with it. He was never happy when I had deviant ideas. He could accept that I kept him a secret, but when I overstepped his boundaries, he would shake his head and, with each instance, he’s grown more distant. It’s taken this to see it. Maybe my penis has stopped working of its own accord. To teach me a lesson.
Since that very day – that evening on the mountain, convincing young strangers that we were gods in all of our magnitude and genius – I’ve been crying over Pippin the Small.
Mother would call it self-imposed karma if I asked her. Father would say Satan is sitting on my shoulder, imposing a curse. Maybe they’re both right. Or maybe I could sue the Hotel for their soft lighting and erotic lobby music. Maybe I could sue the entire Ski Lodge for making their snow too warm and wet, making it too easy to build an igloo.
Once he shows himself in this room, I might strangle the doc for his note pad. I’ll kill him, escape, and then write my own damn prescription. On the note, I’ll write “supply: endless.” Now THAT would earn me power. Power to gain Steven back. Power to rule a city now that I think about it.
She patiently waited with her father, her hair neat and clean and pulled to the back not much past 8. Her father a buisness man of some kind, bent coat playing on his lap, as his tie dripped from his neck like a long green paste. He had one arm tucked around the little girl on the bench made of wood that was harder than concrete to sit on.
The little girl kicked her feat back and forth, not yet able to touch the ground. She smiled and asked the man, "Daddy is Max alright?" pretty soon a man in a lab coat came out and approached them, "I don't think Max will make it through the night!" His voice was a sturdy rumble, one that choked the air with sounds. The man shook his head and replied, "Can you bring him out so she can say good-bye?" The Vet looked at the little girl and nodded with a grim smile.
The Vet walked into the back. It seemed like years had passed before he returned shuffling an old, weathered dog. The dog looked like each step was planned to cause as little pain as possible. "I gave him some pain killers to help a little," the doctor mumbled. The little girl jumped from her chair and hugged the dog. Max looked up at her and wagged his tail a few times as if saying good bye. She kissed him on the cheek and said, "I will see you tomorrow Max." She seemed pleased with her answer, and the dog tilted his head not wanting to ruin the girls day. The Vet looked away tearing up a little he told the father, "This is the hardest part of the job." The father who was clinging to his coat with passions of sadness said, "Lilly let's go mommy is waiting for us."
The little girl bent down one last time and kissed Max whispering, "I will miss you." The dog drew a sad face and licked the girl on the cheek on last time. The father stood and bent down he grabbed the muzzle of his friend like he had probably done so many times before and said, "Don't lose your squeaky toy."
The Vet turned and shuffled Poor Max back into the back. The Father and his Daughter Turned and headed towards the door. From the backroom there was a loud yell, "Hey sit!" Pretty soon Max burst around the corner and approached the little girl. He eased his head under her hand. Then took the time to lick her cheek on last time before calmly reversing his steps and walking calmly to the back. The little girl replied one last time, "I love you too Max!" The dog kept going un-waivered by the girls words. He walked around the corner, and the father, daughter duo walked away. Max never came back out nor did the girl return. All she knows is he is in heaven, and from a far Max watches her grow.
The Warm-Up on the first page has a drawing by Saul Steinberg similar to the one above (I couldn't find the exact image in the book, but I got close!). So, based on either the image above and the image in the book on page 36, you should complete the Warm-Up as follows (reply with your creative response in a comment):
Write a few sentences that might be coming out of the mouth of [at least three] of these characters. What is each likely to be talking about? What do the drawing styles suggest about the voice, vocabulary, sentence structure, and tone of each?
This simple poetic structure relays a humorous outlook on rather serious subjects such as, but not limited to; death, murder, marriage, and/or political upheaval.
An example would be:
Taid and Earth
Taid was laid to rest outside his home in Tulsa. Just a few feet from the place where he was stabbed 4 times. Ground slit and turned over just like the corpse laid within. It smelled of death, and looked dull and lifeless. Earth still moist, and temperate to the touch.
Ironic, in a way, since Taid suffered aichmophobia, the fear of knives and other sharp objects. His body soiled with moister, from the resent fallen rain; And Dirt, The very earth on which he now would be covered. His body so useless. To think it would be months before the person who commited the crime would return to give back what the earth had given.
A death is so unfortunant, you stop to mourn Taid, but who is there to mourn the earth? By now the sun has set on the mound, drying the pile that holds the corpse. Reaching it's long fingers and parching the grains layered aimlessly together. A man wearing a baseball cap wipes his brow at the lingering sun. dropping salt elixer onto the dirt he has just molested, and creased. His eyes squinting, and his teeth blazing through the outcome of what he has just done. He squeezed his hand around a shovel, and sighed. His breath was horse from all the hard work put into covering such a body.
Course you have to take into the consideration that this man loved his hobbies, but his hobbies rarely loved him. Seven years had went by, and Taid his latest victim was his fondest. He took good care with the best of the best for Taid. No matter how far and how much, this man loved Taid. But like the last Six, Taid eventually met an un-timely death. The man would rack his mind over how with the first few. But he had a knack for killing. So eventually, he was consumed with time. How long before the unfortunant, How long before? Each time he drew it out a little longer, and got good at reviving, so he could torcher the victim longer, and longer.
Poor Earth, concealing this man's abilities, and in-abilities all in the same. How glamorous are you to take the bile, and the blame at the same time? False greens cover your dark secret, and yet the birds sing to your glory, for you hide their lunch. How eager, are you to greet the man, who rarely cuts your hair, or trims your bush? How happy are you to see the grimace on the man's face as he carries out his latest victim. How loud a song the birds must sing, to see the body? Knowing the worms will feast? The poor man, who lives a lone. His life revolving like the earth; slowly, isolated, and constantly dealing with life, followed by death.
His hands show the error of his ways. Early mornings working hard up-rooting vegetables, and cutting them to put into his stomach. Then later to return not so far from the scene, to lay the untouched bodies, and other eaten body parts close to the full view of the on-looking garden.
Which brings me to my point? Do vegetables have feelings?
--------------------------
I am sorry I am tired and in a weird mood, I thought this was funny as hell, when I was writing it!
A few years ago, I had a dream that had three dogs, one dog was a blond lab looking dog who would stand to my right, and the other two were dogs wearing a coat of jet black. The one infront of me was savage in nature, looking like a hellhound of old Irish folklore, The other was sitting to the hellhounds left. It was docile in nature and not at all a threat to me. The savage dog would walk back and forth in front of me taunting me, the blonde dog, would move to defend me. However, we were in a field, a bright field. and behind the two black dogs was a huge door. One that had been laid with several gold marks and held a lock. The dog who scared me so bad that I feared closing my eyes, spoke a latin, and German Mix. He spoke and sounded hateful with his tone.
I wrote everything down after everytime of having this dream! It repeated several times, and I got only few hours of sleep every week. I eventually would pass out due to my lack of sleep.
After focusing on speaking with the beast in my sleep, it eventually went away! I was so relieved. I finally could sleep. Well, a few weeks ago, this dream started re-accuring, this time it comes and goes through out the day. He won't quit trying to get at me. I even find myself looking over my shoulder to think I see him out of the corner of my eye. He refuses to leave this time, even after trying by telling him to leave me alone.
This morning was the worst of the bouts with this dog. He randomly makes himself present in my minds eye, and then taunts me with his glowing white, and yellow eyes. Rest is a bitter sweet memory for my weary mind.
So here I sit. Wakend by the threads of my mind. Tired..... Oh, how I wish for the sweet taste of sleep. The good thing about this blog is the feeling of being able to write about it! The sad part is actually reading what I am writing. I am a person of facts and proof. There is NO reasoning or fact behind what is happening. It has happend so much that I have done countless hours of research on my dreams. I do say dreams, mostly in part because I know nothing can affect me out of the dream state.
Even though I am a person who likes evidence to support causality behind something. I also have a big belief in the pseudo-science, (super-natural, and the power of demon/angelic impressions.) Now I don't think anything is out to get me, I just think there is something that has bothered me for so long, now I am trying to over come it. I have no clue what it is. I wish I did because I would be working through it instead of losing sleep trying to figure out what it means. Symbolism and dreams go together, WE ALL, should admit that, but what my dream means I have not the slightest.
I sit here in this dark house, in my little corner, waiting on the clock ticking by to cease. Hoping I can pass out before my alarm tells me to get up. Urgh... Well I hope you all have fun reading this, and don't think I am too crazy. Course to say I am crazy you have to tell me what normal is first. Okay, well see you all in class!
You might be wondering why I have chosen the title Three Strikes and I’m Out, well; the reason is because this is how I feel living here in what I consider “Rural-Ville” Indiana.
I was born and raised on what is considered the “South Side” of Chicago, Illinois. In Chicago, we capitalize South Side because we are very proud of our history and background from each of our neighborhoods, and whether you are from the North Side, the South Side, the East Side, or the West Side, that is how we all roll in Chi-town.
I eventually ended up moving to Northwest Indiana, to the city of Hammond, but it is so close to Illinois that it is considered to be part of the surrounding, metropolitan, Chicago area.
From the time that I was born, I have lived in very diverse areas. I was exposed to virtually a melting pot of ethnic groups; and by the way, I am multi-racial. My father is African-American or “black” as it is generally referred as, and Mexican; and my mother is Caucasian or “white” as most people have a tendency to refer to that particular complexion.
I don’t identify singularly with either “black” or “white”, or even Hispanic. I consider myself to be of all those nationalities, because that is who I am; regardless of the color of my skin, the texture of my hair, or the size of my lips, nose and “butt”. In "Rural-Ville" however, based on my experiences so far, this seems to be the first strike against me.
I moved to New Castle, Indiana in August of 2007. Prior to this, in February of the same year, I began dating someone that I’d met via Internet dating. She and I, yes, I said she, oh, and yes, I’m gay, did I forget to mention that? And based on personal experience, this would be strike two for me here in the “Rural-Ville” Bible belt.
The first things I noticed in New Castle were the corn fields. Are they sure there is more than corn in Indiana? There were also soybean fields, as well as many cows, horses, pigs, goats, sheep, chickens, llamas, and alpaca’s… what in the world is an alpaca? They kind of look like llamas to me, but what do I know? I am from “up North” as my partner says.
My partner told me we lived in the city limits; city limits? What is she talking about? Around the corner from her property, there are fields and many of the aforementioned animals, again I say, this is the city? And where by God are all of the sidewalks?
As the summer progressed, I noticed many things. Many people have a drawl in the dialect here. Words like I reckon, and I “cain’t” instead of I can’t, or “like ‘at” instead of like that, flow abundantly from many mouths, and son of a bitch, has turned into “sumbitch”. This isn’t a problem however; I actually think it’s rather endearing, and believe me, I’ve been asked “You’re not from around here, are you?” and “You’re from up North ain’tcha?” enough times to know that my dialect is very different as well.
There was another thing that I noticed in New Castle, where are all the black folks, Hispanics, Asians and such here? I asked my partner. Well, she said, they are here, you just don’t see them. What? That in itself isn’t very funny, but when she said it I actually chuckled and said, you have to be kidding right? She wasn’t.
What a treat for me when we went to the Mexican restaurant, Los Amigos for lunch one day! There were actual Mexicans in the restaurant! Albeit, they were serving in the restaurant, however there were no Hispanic families actually eating in the restaurant.
He seemed as shocked to hear Spanish with the correct dialect come from my lips as I was to actually see another human being of a different ethnicity in the area! This is why I felt the need to explain to him that I was not quite of the same cloth as those that he may have come across before. The server smiled at me and I smiled in return, it was a connection, a kind of kinship, and that small gesture made me feel very much at home...
I didn’t start meeting any other people with different ethnicities until I began college in August, 2007. I decided to go back to school to attain a degree in Nursing. I began attending Indiana University East in Richmond, Indiana, but even there, there were very few people of different races, the campus was predominantly of the Caucasian persuasion.
Regardless of this, in classes where there were a few people of different ethnicities and cultures, I found the atmosphere very pleasant. Everyone seemed to get along quite well, and I did not feel the walls of prejudicial bigotry, until I began working in the child development center at the school.
There, the center was run by a Caucasian woman who felt the need to jokingly point out racial differences in the individuals who worked there, with things like “That must be a black thing huh?” and in front of us as well! I am a pretty up front person, so when I told her one day that I was not only of black ancestry, but gay as well, her jaw dropped in surprise.
The other individuals that worked in the center that were African-American never let this woman know that her remarks were unnecessary and made us uncomfortable. I couldn’t understand why. On more than one occasion, prior to my telling her who and what I was, she would often say things in a hushed tone to me, such as, “I can never understand those people, do I have to learn an entirely different language?”
My assumption is that this woman felt comfortable with me because of the color of my skin, hair and eyes, so when I let her in on my “dirty little secret”, she did a complete about face with me. From then on, the comments did not include joking remarks regarding race in my presence, but they were now directed toward my being a lesbian. Strike two strikes again here in “Rural-Ville”.
They were small, indirect things of course; things that one might be able to brush off in annoyance once or twice; but they occurred every time that I was in her presence; and I did not find her comments, regardless of how small, funny. In fact, they were outright ignorant, and this was a director of a child development center?
My co-workers and I discussed this on several occasions, but they felt it was out of their hands, what could they do? they said. I felt completely different. She doesn’t know who she’s dealing with! I said. I’m from Chi-town! We all laughed at this of course, and I didn’t want to cause any trouble for my co-workers, but I just couldn’t even begin to try to understand why were they allowing this to continue?
I eventually wrote a resignation letter and addressed the letter not only to her, but to her boss as well. I stated how I felt and why, and suggested the director be retrained in an ethics class. Nothing ever came of this; I guess the school did not feel it warranted any affirmative action.
I feel better for my actions however, and that is all that is important to me now. I cannot change everyone, people choose to be who they are, but if you work in a situation where there are so many touchy ethical issues, keep your negative opinions within your own circles and don’t bring them into my open minded space if you please. I did what I felt I had to do, and sometimes just speaking out brings forth empowerment in itself.
I also came across an instructor in an Art class that I’d taken that seemed was pretty biased against women. He never seemed to interact with any of the women in the class, and whenever a female hand was raised, he just never seemed to actually see those hands.
I am a very observant individual, and being the person that I am, I decided to call him on it one day, just to affirm if it were just my imagination. There were already several male students gathered around his podium going over assignments, etc., and it was early. We were all still getting settled in our seats and there were still several minutes to spare.
I stepped forward after the others had finished their discussions, and asked him a question regarding one of my assignments, and was taken aback when he abruptly stated, much to my surprise and embarrassment, “Ms. Jackson, can’t you see we are about to start lecture? If you need further information with regard to the assignment, make an appointment to see me in my office!”
Needless to say, I was very embarrassed. Red faced, I went back to my seat, mumbling an unwarranted apology. I guess this would be strike three for my being a woman here again in “Rural-Ville!”
I am ashamed to say that I did nothing with regard to this incident. Why you might ask? I believe it has to do with wanting the best grade possible. I could stand up to my boss at the child development center because she after all, had nothing to do with whether I received an “A” in a class.
I stayed at Indiana University East for three semesters, but because I moved from New Castle to Muncie, Indiana, it was just too long of a drive. I decided to finish my prerequisite courses at Ivy Tech Community College in Muncie.
I am pretty content with the curriculum here. I really like the diversity of the campus, and the instructors. I have to say however that there are still predominantly Caucasian individuals in most of my classes, but here again I do not feel any prejudicial walls of bigotry, that is until I spent some time in my English 112 class.
I do not feel any racial bias in this class, there is, after all one young man in the class that is African-American, and then of course there is me. To look at me however, with my blond hair (now red), green eyes, and light complexion, I don’t blame anyone for their assumptions, but I say to you, never judge a person by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character!
The thing I feel the most in this particular class from a few individuals is their animosity toward homosexuality. I have heard a number of people in the class state their opinions with regard to this subject and I have to honestly say that these comments make me uncomfortable.
I do not wear a sign that identifies me as a lesbian, nor do I fit the typical stereotype of what a lesbian is “supposed” to look like. I wear make-up and jewelry, much of the time and regardless of my sexual preference, I personally identify with being a woman.
Everyone is entitled to their own opinions, thoughts and preferences, and I have my own as well, but I do not voice those opinions unless they are warranted, and they are usually not directed negatively toward anyone with the intent to do harm.
I wrote this paper with the approval of our instructor, and it is basically a kind of hello, this is who I am, I would really appreciate it if we would all just mind our own manners kind of thing. We all chose to be in college to explore the many possibilities that a higher education can bring, and one of those possibilities is how we might be able to have a positive impact on ourselves, others and quite possibly the world in which we all reside.
Thank you for opportunity to practice my impact on others by listening to what I have had to say. The title of my paper is Three Strikes and I’m Out? That is the question, and my answer is absolutely not, I'm out and very proud.
So (finally) here's where we'll create a heap of poetic terms and forms and whatnot. Poetry has a massive under-code/secret language, but it's only mildly intimidating (actually, the thought of being "in" on an ancient, secret under-code should sound way cool).
Reply/Comment to this "mother post" with a few discoveries of your own - be sure to post the definition of a FORM and at least one other TERM (It would work well if the additional term you choose to define is an element of your form). IF you retrieve your info from another website or book (and I'm sure you shall find it somewhere), be sure to cite your source in your response by simply supplying us with a hyperlink back to the web page or with author, book title, and year. Do NOT repeat terms or forms that have already been posted (This, therefore, requires you to read what has already been posted carefully). I encourage you to try creating or finding an example of the form that you've chosen to define.
Here's a definition served up with an example. I also defined a few extra terms seeing as these are basics - these we need to know up front. You need only define ONE form and ONE term. These definitions were found on poetryfoundation.org.
Villanelle
A French verse form consisting of five three-line stanzas and a final quatrain, with the first and third lines of the first stanza repeating alternately in the following stanzas. These two refrain lines form the final couplet in the quatrain. See “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night” by Dylan Thomas.
stanza - A grouping of lines separated from others in a poem. In modern free verse, the stanza, like a prose paragraph, can be used to mark a shift in mood, time, or thought.
quatrain - A four-line stanza, rhyming (in some sort of pattern). For example, the quatrain in Thomas's final stanza (below) has the rhyming scheme of ABAA (height, pray, night, light).
refrain - A phrase or line repeated at intervals within a poem, especially at the end of a stanza. For example, in Thomas's poem, the refrains are "Do not go gentle into that good night" and "Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
couplet - A pair of successive rhyming lines, usually of the same length. (See how the refrained lines create a couplet in the final stanza of Thomas's poem?)
Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night
BY DYLAN THOMAS
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas, “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night” from The Poems of Dylan Thomas. Copyright 1939, 1946 by New Directions Publishing Corporation. Reprinted with the permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.
Source: The Collected Poems of Dylan Thomas (New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1957)
No time in days So much, what to do? Sleep There is were no tomorrow, I need tomorrow, tomorrow cannot come I need today, today cannot come Arms ripped from sockets Gray matter oozes out Choppers disintegrate Stop! Please stop! Deficient assist Shattered glass
If you've ever been unsure of how to use a semi-colon or the apostrophe, many have found these sites both informative and fun. Go here (click on the images, which are the lovely creations of "The Oatmeal" who are also the creators of explanatory stories like "Ten Words You Need to Stop Misspelling" and "How Everything Goes to Hell in a Zombie Apocalypse."):
It's full of writing prompts and exercises to get you rolling if you feel you've stopped rolling or if you have never ever been rolling and wish to get yourself started right away. Among many other things, it has a couple of awesome little gadgets: The Poetry Generator and the Haiku-a-Tron, which both create automatically generated poetry (?) from a massive word database. Even if the automatic generation doesn't create a masterpiece, it can often times create a fabulous line or phrase that you can take your own way, in search of your own masterpiece.
. . . The truth is that any site which upholds William S. Burroughs and sticks his ever-awesomely-creepy face all over the place HAS to be cool. Dig it?
Unsure who William S. Burroughs is? He's a bizarro Beatnik writer who accidently shot his wife in the head (in his younger years, of course). He was obessesed with sex, outer space, and, later, his dreams. I could say more, but instead . . . here's an example of his writing ("Mother and I Would Like to Know"): http://www.evergreenreview.com/100/fiction/burroughs2.html
You are a creative writer and not allowed to be offended by that which hangs on the edge (in fact, you should be fascinated by it). However, I'll state it anyway: Read and investigate Mr. Burroughs at your own risk.
If you lurk often in the digital realm (and don't hate yourself for it) or even if you think it's good-fer-nuthin' when it comes to self-expression, CHECK THIS STUFF OUT. JawboneTV is mighty cool . . . oftentimes incredibly strange but cool.
Check out the latest issue: http://www.creativenonfiction.org/brevity/index.htm
(wish I could! if you have the time to read a few of these, let me know what's good!)
Just thought I would share this flash fiction with everyone. All credit is to the author, Tim Pratt, I personally thought the story was amusing and had an intelligent plot at the same time.
Here's a place where you can publish your response to the Warm Up Exercise on Page 2 of the textbook as a COMMENT to this post. Also, I wanted to give you a better version of the image and a little follow-up on the el-bizarro artist that is Laurie Lipton. Have a peek at her awesome website: www.laurielipton.com Laurie's also on MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/laurieliptondrawings and Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/laurieliptonart. And she's featured here: http://beinart.org/ (The Bein Art International Surreal Art Collective). If the image below doesn't do anything for you, try inspiring yourself with one of her other pieces - BUT if you do, please post it in your comment or leave a link to it because we'd love to see it. :)
If you'd like to leave a comment on a post, the link to do so is at the TOP of the post, not the bottom. There is a listing of multiple things that you can do per post listed at the top of each post. You can share a post, comment on a post, edit a post, etc. etc. Play around to figure things out. Send me a question if you have one - or you can simply post it here.
Finally, I did it. It's done. I've had a lot to do this weekend, but, of course, creating this 202 class a kick-ass blog was one of my top priorities. I apologize for not getting this out sooner. I confess: I spent way too much time looking around in search of a better template design (or "blogskin"). I tried to find one that wasn't too plain or busy or girly. And humor! It had to make us all smile every time we opened it up.
I decided to create our blog in Blogger (obviously). I'm not sure what made me inclined to title it "Speed Limit 202" - I think it was because I spontaneously evoked a theme of road signs (the one below is also on Blackboard) for no apparent reason.
You do not need a Gmail account to sign up to post to Blogger. However, if you have a Gmail account and you'd rather I send your invite to contribute to this blog to that e-mail account instead of the one listed on Campus Connect, let me know right away.
YOU are the exclusive authors here. This is your space. You can post whatever you'd like here (of course, use good judgement). You can post your own writing. You can start conversations. You can post links or even embed movies. If you post the work of others, be sure to give them appropriate credit. Remember that this blog has been added to Blogger's lists and may show up in internet searches. This means that we may, on occasion gain an extra follower or have a stranger make a comment. However, in all likelihood, this will not be frequent.
I'd also like to invite you to add to a list titled "Writerly Sites" contained within the right-hand column - I think you, as an author, can add to it by clicking on "Layout" and then "Page Elements" and then clicking "Edit" in the Writerly Sites box. If you have a website or interesting blog that you follow, include the link here for everyone to see. NOTE: NEVER go to "Edit HTML" under the "Layout" tab to make changes or make any other changes regarding the "Layout" or "Template."
Spread a link back to this blog if you'd like others to see this! I do believe I'll invite my husband to follow this as well. He's taking a creative writing course at Ball State this semester, but he's not getting an awesome blog like this. If you have any problems with the tech-side of things and creating a post, let me know and we can review the steps after or before class one day. If too many people are having problems with the process (but I doubt we will), I can create a hand-out or carve out some class time in a computer lab.
a blog containing thoughts, discoveries, questions, prose, news stories, links, and media posted by the one and only Creative Writing class of the Semester 2010 at Ivy Tech Community College in Anderson, Indiana.
The Answer Bag 
