people play games for reassurance
it's easier than asking
10,000 green trees
exhale our sadness
a dragonfly stops for a moment
contemplates me, while I contemplate
him
the trees love in the breeze
I sip my coffee, squint at
the sun and wish someone
understood
sweat trickles down my face
the breeze cools it
birds sing, squirrels chirp, water
flows, wind blows, time passes
I expose my shoulders to the sun
and return to reading
what is left behind and done
love is so much ephemera
a dry cleaning ticket traveling
towards a sewer grate
playing underneath
modern art
cat batting at a curtain cord
you, with my heart
Venus flytrap,
sticky sweet glue
I want to be trapped, consumed
her silver hammered words
like lightening strikes
blinding me, burning me
shocking me
I'll put it inbetween these two books
the beautiful thing
these beautiful things
you made me
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Academia and Experimental Writing
I'm terrible at formal writing, so forgive me. This will be very casual. For my senior seminar, I applied with manuscript, to the creative writing section here at the U. I was accepted, by Julie Schumacher, who
is now the head of the creative writing program. She contantly commented on how wonderful my work was. The other students in class scoffed at my work, not considering it fiction because it did not follow the norm. Plot, character etc... No one wanted to be challenged, or discuss alternatives to traditional writing. The class was beneficial because I wrote, and received postive feedback & encouragement from the Professor, enough that I thought I might be able to get into the MFA program here, as she really seemed to like my work. She told me I should be very proud of what I had accomplished (perhaps I will post that short story here) etc...etc...I applied to the U, with her letter of recommendation, and did not get in. Did not even receive a private note. I submitted a manuscript to a Grad level fiction class, following my rejection and was chosen out of numerous applicants. Again, my work is very experimental, non-traditional, it's not as if these Prof's received standard work and were surprised once class started. I called this class the stab myself in the eye class, because that is what I wanted to do to
myself every class period. I thought MFA students would be excited about writing, want to discuss and exchange ideas, but instead they talked about their personal lives and how my work was nothing... maybe it was pretty words, but that was all (to this day I would like to see them come up with words as pretty as mine). I became silent, tired of trying to explain the validity of what I was doing, tired of being attacked, instead of having my work and viewpoint explored. And I am not just saying this, the majority of work in that class was mediocre at best. Things I was writing years ago, things people have written a hundred times before. I went to the Professor's office one day, and without uttering a word, he said, I know, I know, the class is disorganized, unfocused, out of control. He asked ME to help him get it back on track! I was the undergrad...he was the Prof. He wasn't defending me, I sure as hell was not going to do his job for him. He gave me a B+, claimed I had not turned in all my work (which I had and could prove) and told me I didn't participate in discussion enough. I stopped writing for 2 years. I questioned my desire to ever apply to another MFA program. If this was what it was going to be like, I wanted no part of it. The 'workshopping' of my pieces by other students was half hearted and completely unhelpful, as they had no desire to expand their horizons and understand what I was doing. There is no room for anything, other than the norm. I did not hold a high opinion of the loft, but knew I never wanted to take another writing course at the U of MN. I reviewed their offerings and noticed a class called Intuitive Writing. I was skeptical, but have been very pleased so far. The environment is welcoming to all styles of writing. People are there because they want to write, not because they need to feel superior to others, or be unquestioning. It is a supportive environment. I understand not everyone is a 'good' writer, but if you want to, need to write, this class is just the ticket. The teacher opens with physical exercises, making noises, stretching, word generation, etc...then she gives us an exercise. Pick one of these words and start writing without thinking or stopping. Perfect! I understand the need to craft sometimes, but I don't believe it is always required. Though I feel what I am doing is over most of their heads, I do not feel judged. This class has me writing and thinking and talking about my viewpoint on writing. Granted, most people are beginners and don't have much to say, but I still feel supported.
After this class finished, the teacher asked if I had thought about applying to the U's MFA program? Ironic? I'm sorry this is such a mess. I don't really have time to pause and craft at work.
I hope to post something about what my writing is about (though I don't
even understand it fully).
is now the head of the creative writing program. She contantly commented on how wonderful my work was. The other students in class scoffed at my work, not considering it fiction because it did not follow the norm. Plot, character etc... No one wanted to be challenged, or discuss alternatives to traditional writing. The class was beneficial because I wrote, and received postive feedback & encouragement from the Professor, enough that I thought I might be able to get into the MFA program here, as she really seemed to like my work. She told me I should be very proud of what I had accomplished (perhaps I will post that short story here) etc...etc...I applied to the U, with her letter of recommendation, and did not get in. Did not even receive a private note. I submitted a manuscript to a Grad level fiction class, following my rejection and was chosen out of numerous applicants. Again, my work is very experimental, non-traditional, it's not as if these Prof's received standard work and were surprised once class started. I called this class the stab myself in the eye class, because that is what I wanted to do to
myself every class period. I thought MFA students would be excited about writing, want to discuss and exchange ideas, but instead they talked about their personal lives and how my work was nothing... maybe it was pretty words, but that was all (to this day I would like to see them come up with words as pretty as mine). I became silent, tired of trying to explain the validity of what I was doing, tired of being attacked, instead of having my work and viewpoint explored. And I am not just saying this, the majority of work in that class was mediocre at best. Things I was writing years ago, things people have written a hundred times before. I went to the Professor's office one day, and without uttering a word, he said, I know, I know, the class is disorganized, unfocused, out of control. He asked ME to help him get it back on track! I was the undergrad...he was the Prof. He wasn't defending me, I sure as hell was not going to do his job for him. He gave me a B+, claimed I had not turned in all my work (which I had and could prove) and told me I didn't participate in discussion enough. I stopped writing for 2 years. I questioned my desire to ever apply to another MFA program. If this was what it was going to be like, I wanted no part of it. The 'workshopping' of my pieces by other students was half hearted and completely unhelpful, as they had no desire to expand their horizons and understand what I was doing. There is no room for anything, other than the norm. I did not hold a high opinion of the loft, but knew I never wanted to take another writing course at the U of MN. I reviewed their offerings and noticed a class called Intuitive Writing. I was skeptical, but have been very pleased so far. The environment is welcoming to all styles of writing. People are there because they want to write, not because they need to feel superior to others, or be unquestioning. It is a supportive environment. I understand not everyone is a 'good' writer, but if you want to, need to write, this class is just the ticket. The teacher opens with physical exercises, making noises, stretching, word generation, etc...then she gives us an exercise. Pick one of these words and start writing without thinking or stopping. Perfect! I understand the need to craft sometimes, but I don't believe it is always required. Though I feel what I am doing is over most of their heads, I do not feel judged. This class has me writing and thinking and talking about my viewpoint on writing. Granted, most people are beginners and don't have much to say, but I still feel supported.
After this class finished, the teacher asked if I had thought about applying to the U's MFA program? Ironic? I'm sorry this is such a mess. I don't really have time to pause and craft at work.
I hope to post something about what my writing is about (though I don't
even understand it fully).
Friday, April 16, 2010
Covered
Silently softly flakes fell below light while
Alone the moon emptied nothing sudden
Beside the silence
When disturbed I felt cold
Upon the new ground
Alone the moon emptied nothing sudden
Beside the silence
When disturbed I felt cold
Upon the new ground
Excerpt from a new piece
There were messages in the morphine, lethargy at the edge. The pleasure of doing math escapes me and I’m not a sensitive am I? Eternal intellectual pitfalls, what madness is this? No logic or material evidence, love transparent, ephemeral, translucent like a spirit mist. I caught a glimpse of it once and like a ghost hunter I keep trying to capture proof. And what I want is to not have to return to work, to make God’s acquaintance, to be what you thought I was, to disappear. This is a specific neurophysiological state, connections. Writing a complicated infection and the only treatment is persistence. You talk about characters but there is no such thing. What will come of this, when things go too fast. You need time to make time. More likely to forget dreams, hallucinate, limited precise time, maybe around…happiness and glory awaits you. Subconscious communication someone will appoint your thoughts. Practice sitting. Massive steady small perspiring spirit power light and dark knowledge of immortality, unclear end of time, no neat and orderly tight red fleshy drawers. The details are already there. Your world is so small and specific. Shadows everywhere, the intent to murder is there, from the moment everything diverges. A curiosity. I suppose you would say I was dark. Unkind molecules congeal, tick tock, tick tock. The climate of my mind, drastic overcast and stormy. I never really lived in the world. It was always in my mind, the life I created out of difference. The world I created to be allowed to exist, or did I? The assignment is to be what you are not. Wind fire time and place, exit and no exit. I leave no memories. I am not finished. I was always trying to impress the girls. People want what they know. I am nothing like that. Can there be no knowledge without proof? Beyond physical reality outside of time and I like it that way. A little off, just like everything else. I remember when the world ended, I let out a pained howl and closed the door…then it kept happening over and over. The day I realized that people and love was nothing but lies. I know I keep mentioning it, but it’s the truth that everyone is afraid of. Everyone has their obsessions, this is mine. One more thing to tell you. Despite my best efforts (and I am still trying), despite time and distance, most days I still wish you unhappiness. I hope I gnaw at the part of you that knows what you did. Bricks and electric turn cold in an instant for no apparent reason. Yet somehow I can still sometimes make it sound so beautiful I even fool myself. And just like always when I show, no one understands and the inevitable, I become silent.
Sitting on the fence. I am a vague landscape formed out of the silence and so I sit and observe the crows in repose. This is my undoing. Sitting in silence relating to birds more than to people. Participating in melodies and realizing the barrenness. Stark, sparse, the exact exchange unknown. A burrowing slow aimless river through my mind. Brooding and angry. Esoteric cool. Full of wonder and fear. She possesses secret talents.
My only assignment is love.
Sitting on the fence. I am a vague landscape formed out of the silence and so I sit and observe the crows in repose. This is my undoing. Sitting in silence relating to birds more than to people. Participating in melodies and realizing the barrenness. Stark, sparse, the exact exchange unknown. A burrowing slow aimless river through my mind. Brooding and angry. Esoteric cool. Full of wonder and fear. She possesses secret talents.
My only assignment is love.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Simple Signs and Wonders
Simple Signs and Wonders
copyright 2008 Danielle D. Billington
The building, a concrete monolith, the concrete cold seeping into the skin, stealing the soul and breath of almost all who enter within. Inside, it could have been anyone’s office. A typically tiny sterile colorless box, but…A framed map of South America, an embroidered hummingbird on linen, books on any and every subject from haiku to fractals, though it was perhaps a tad more disorganized, as if a tornado whipped through and deposited things randomly into every available space. Books, papers, pictures, pens…she was always loosing her keys underneath things. She is the setting, the setting is her. I told someone once; the office woman, she is beautiful and clumsy, with soft skin the color of Maxfield Parish women and eyes, sleepy brown eyes which I am certain gaze into the infinite, and she has wavy brown hair with hidden breaths of gray, which make her adored even more on the days she has not hidden them with store bought dye. She is under the same thundering skies as I. It rains in her office. She says the rain never touches her. Imagine the flurry of falling drops parting in waves around her. Birds sing liquid songs and ants march in neat lines across the floor.
I am full of trepidation upon entering, it is like stepping across the invisible threshold at the louvre, setting off the alarm, stealing the Mona Lisa’s smile, carrying it in the palm of your hand running through the halls while security guards chase after shouting in French symbolist poetry. As always, I spent too much time there, in the woman’s office, interpreting signs and wonders. I couldn’t help it, and being neurotic, I analyzed it. Yet still, the office was a vast portal taking me away from the mundane. It spit out ideas, thoughts, poetry, stories at the speed and force of a thundering train, despite its hideous bland beige carpeting. Can fractals be used to determine human beauty? Are mathematical patterns embedded in Aztec embroidery? Would you read someone’s journal if they left it behind? I knew it was a swirling mesmerizing vortex of enticement. It was the anticipation of a lap dance waiting to happen, the twenty-dollar bill dangling. I want to place my hands on it, divine its secrets, moving its dark blue electrical energies around at the tips of my fingers as if it were a crystal ball.
For someone, such as I, who could, and did easily sleepwalk and daydream through every moment of mundane daily existence, this space, this simple space made time pass unnoticed, improbable, and what it contained shocked me awake like a not murderous lightening strike. The gift of rain, the burst of awake, like citrus sprayed in your face without the sting. So good, too good, it must be a dream from which you never want to wake.
“Do you understand?” She always asks me, looking into my eyes intently.
“I understand nothing but beauty…as clear and as crystalline as ice.” I reply.
But nothing ever happens.
Time stops, stars start, turn, and drop, and as always the spell breaks as I cross back through the heavy and scarred thick wooden door. Entering the everyday, falling asleep so fast as if sandman, moon stars and all, were sprouting in my consciousness, rooting there, spreading drowsy inducing tendrils. I must leave, returning to the continuous motion-- the velocity of unrest.
(My writing Prof told me it was too philosophical. I like to tell and sometimes show.)
copyright 2008 Danielle D. Billington
The building, a concrete monolith, the concrete cold seeping into the skin, stealing the soul and breath of almost all who enter within. Inside, it could have been anyone’s office. A typically tiny sterile colorless box, but…A framed map of South America, an embroidered hummingbird on linen, books on any and every subject from haiku to fractals, though it was perhaps a tad more disorganized, as if a tornado whipped through and deposited things randomly into every available space. Books, papers, pictures, pens…she was always loosing her keys underneath things. She is the setting, the setting is her. I told someone once; the office woman, she is beautiful and clumsy, with soft skin the color of Maxfield Parish women and eyes, sleepy brown eyes which I am certain gaze into the infinite, and she has wavy brown hair with hidden breaths of gray, which make her adored even more on the days she has not hidden them with store bought dye. She is under the same thundering skies as I. It rains in her office. She says the rain never touches her. Imagine the flurry of falling drops parting in waves around her. Birds sing liquid songs and ants march in neat lines across the floor.
I am full of trepidation upon entering, it is like stepping across the invisible threshold at the louvre, setting off the alarm, stealing the Mona Lisa’s smile, carrying it in the palm of your hand running through the halls while security guards chase after shouting in French symbolist poetry. As always, I spent too much time there, in the woman’s office, interpreting signs and wonders. I couldn’t help it, and being neurotic, I analyzed it. Yet still, the office was a vast portal taking me away from the mundane. It spit out ideas, thoughts, poetry, stories at the speed and force of a thundering train, despite its hideous bland beige carpeting. Can fractals be used to determine human beauty? Are mathematical patterns embedded in Aztec embroidery? Would you read someone’s journal if they left it behind? I knew it was a swirling mesmerizing vortex of enticement. It was the anticipation of a lap dance waiting to happen, the twenty-dollar bill dangling. I want to place my hands on it, divine its secrets, moving its dark blue electrical energies around at the tips of my fingers as if it were a crystal ball.
For someone, such as I, who could, and did easily sleepwalk and daydream through every moment of mundane daily existence, this space, this simple space made time pass unnoticed, improbable, and what it contained shocked me awake like a not murderous lightening strike. The gift of rain, the burst of awake, like citrus sprayed in your face without the sting. So good, too good, it must be a dream from which you never want to wake.
“Do you understand?” She always asks me, looking into my eyes intently.
“I understand nothing but beauty…as clear and as crystalline as ice.” I reply.
But nothing ever happens.
Time stops, stars start, turn, and drop, and as always the spell breaks as I cross back through the heavy and scarred thick wooden door. Entering the everyday, falling asleep so fast as if sandman, moon stars and all, were sprouting in my consciousness, rooting there, spreading drowsy inducing tendrils. I must leave, returning to the continuous motion-- the velocity of unrest.
(My writing Prof told me it was too philosophical. I like to tell and sometimes show.)
Ego
"'I' is merely one of the world's instantaneous spasms."
— Clarice Lispector (The Passion According to G.H.)
— Clarice Lispector (The Passion According to G.H.)
Remebrance of things past
Sonnet 30: When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
by William Shakespeare
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear times' waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.
by William Shakespeare
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear times' waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
A little something
Love Poem in Gibberish?
_____________________________
I tried, but nothing came...
She said to write you a love poem in gibberish
But I can't because you make sense to me
your lips and hips
the sunken curves of you
your face the golden ratio
your mind the black sea heavy with storms
_____________________________
I tried, but nothing came...
She said to write you a love poem in gibberish
But I can't because you make sense to me
your lips and hips
the sunken curves of you
your face the golden ratio
your mind the black sea heavy with storms
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