- One page of story.or
-One paragraph of poetry.
or
-One line of dialogue.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Question:
How did you learn about the birds and the bees?
I have a very funny story about my first delve into this arena (no pun intended) and I hope the responses will be just as horrifying as my own story... which I will share in the comments later on!
Maura
I have a very funny story about my first delve into this arena (no pun intended) and I hope the responses will be just as horrifying as my own story... which I will share in the comments later on!
Maura
Zygote
Of all the realities I could have chosen for myself, why did I pick this one?
You start in this world as a cluster of pluripotent stem cells, each immortal as the next. Embryologists actually call that clump of potential a morula – in Latin “blackberry” - because of all the little bumps. At this stage, doctors can even suck off a few cells to test without damaging the future product: Baby.
The process of maturation is not what we've been told.
We are not blank slates who grow in potential with every skill we learn or degree we receive. Our steps do not lead us toward open doors, but down an ever narrowing hallway. By the time we're 25, there's not enough room to turn around even if we knew how. We are conceived with potential, born running, and die crammed down the narrow shoot that has become our lives. My only hope is that I like the view when I get there.
Day One: Zygote
One gamete + One gamete = One Zygote.
Or more to the point: Egg + Sperm = the reason we bomb abortion clinics.
Whatever your view on the bumper-sticker abortion debate, there's no denying those little zygotes have style. They're like superheroes: cloning a thousand identical copies of them selves, each one capable of cloning a thousand more. Each doppelganger of the original, who we will call Patient Zero, is both completely expendable and infinitely important. It is humanity being made in the image of God in miniature. And each member of this supernatural clone army has the power to morph and to heal and to become any part of the human body you could imagine and a thousand others you've never heard of. To survive, though, most must fall like angels onto the hard earth of differentiation.
Only a step in some cases leaves these gods trapped and finite in an ever shrinking body. The population is growing in leaps, but once these kids marry young, they put down roots and get busy dying. They spawn little bastards made in their own image with their own strengths and faults and bad habits. This once super hero's fate is a white picket fence around the large intestine with a million babies making babies until it's sayonara and he's shipped out with tomorrow's waste. What happened?
You see, as fate would have it, the world turns not by the whim of immortals by by the sweat of a billion trillion army ants just trying to keep pace. And to survive means moving and moving means growing legs and growing legs means standing upright on the backs of would-be superheroes who gave up everything in the name of progress. Was the womb really that bad?
People say good liars need great memories, and they're right. Remembering what you said to her and to him and to them and how it differs from the rest of hers and hims and thems is tough stuff. That's why my pot head friends are the most honest people I know. As kids, knowing Jack-Shit about the world or our places in it meant we could be part of every conversation without pretense or hypocrisy. We knew what we knew until someone told us otherwise. We were as close as we would ever be again to our zygote selves – infinite in our potential and mailable as the silly putty stuck in our hair. But with every new idea that stuck, we closed off a bit more. With every Fact we learned, we were able to learn a little less. We learned that a circle was not a square and time couldn't be measured in french fries. We were losing dimensions by the day, sacrificing great though unformed ideas in favor of those that would get us by, until one day when a first grade teacher would tell us to “be creative” with a #2 pencil and one side of an 8 and ½ by 11 inch sheet of lined paper we wouldn't even see the irony. In first grade I was already dying. And no amount of home-schooling, lateral-thinking or pep-talking could turn me back. Before I'd even known that knowing better was an option, my surroundings had closed in around me. I was lost in a sea of dinner-party knees just looking for the pair of legs that would take me home. And there, in that first desire to find safety in the known, I had slit my wrists for any existence worthy of a superhero. I was basking in the infertility of Kryptonite. And I was loving it.
You start in this world as a cluster of pluripotent stem cells, each immortal as the next. Embryologists actually call that clump of potential a morula – in Latin “blackberry” - because of all the little bumps. At this stage, doctors can even suck off a few cells to test without damaging the future product: Baby.
The process of maturation is not what we've been told.
We are not blank slates who grow in potential with every skill we learn or degree we receive. Our steps do not lead us toward open doors, but down an ever narrowing hallway. By the time we're 25, there's not enough room to turn around even if we knew how. We are conceived with potential, born running, and die crammed down the narrow shoot that has become our lives. My only hope is that I like the view when I get there.
Day One: Zygote
One gamete + One gamete = One Zygote.
Or more to the point: Egg + Sperm = the reason we bomb abortion clinics.
Whatever your view on the bumper-sticker abortion debate, there's no denying those little zygotes have style. They're like superheroes: cloning a thousand identical copies of them selves, each one capable of cloning a thousand more. Each doppelganger of the original, who we will call Patient Zero, is both completely expendable and infinitely important. It is humanity being made in the image of God in miniature. And each member of this supernatural clone army has the power to morph and to heal and to become any part of the human body you could imagine and a thousand others you've never heard of. To survive, though, most must fall like angels onto the hard earth of differentiation.
Only a step in some cases leaves these gods trapped and finite in an ever shrinking body. The population is growing in leaps, but once these kids marry young, they put down roots and get busy dying. They spawn little bastards made in their own image with their own strengths and faults and bad habits. This once super hero's fate is a white picket fence around the large intestine with a million babies making babies until it's sayonara and he's shipped out with tomorrow's waste. What happened?
You see, as fate would have it, the world turns not by the whim of immortals by by the sweat of a billion trillion army ants just trying to keep pace. And to survive means moving and moving means growing legs and growing legs means standing upright on the backs of would-be superheroes who gave up everything in the name of progress. Was the womb really that bad?
People say good liars need great memories, and they're right. Remembering what you said to her and to him and to them and how it differs from the rest of hers and hims and thems is tough stuff. That's why my pot head friends are the most honest people I know. As kids, knowing Jack-Shit about the world or our places in it meant we could be part of every conversation without pretense or hypocrisy. We knew what we knew until someone told us otherwise. We were as close as we would ever be again to our zygote selves – infinite in our potential and mailable as the silly putty stuck in our hair. But with every new idea that stuck, we closed off a bit more. With every Fact we learned, we were able to learn a little less. We learned that a circle was not a square and time couldn't be measured in french fries. We were losing dimensions by the day, sacrificing great though unformed ideas in favor of those that would get us by, until one day when a first grade teacher would tell us to “be creative” with a #2 pencil and one side of an 8 and ½ by 11 inch sheet of lined paper we wouldn't even see the irony. In first grade I was already dying. And no amount of home-schooling, lateral-thinking or pep-talking could turn me back. Before I'd even known that knowing better was an option, my surroundings had closed in around me. I was lost in a sea of dinner-party knees just looking for the pair of legs that would take me home. And there, in that first desire to find safety in the known, I had slit my wrists for any existence worthy of a superhero. I was basking in the infertility of Kryptonite. And I was loving it.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Assignment
Write one page or less regarding an object in your household that represents vulnerability.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
5 Minutes
5 Minute Stream of Consciousness.
By Pandora
7:38 He called about the older friend, Richie, who sleeps through every afternoon. I immediately thought of differential diagnoses. Depression. Insomnia. Alcoholism exacerbating either. Lewey Body dementia. Vascular compromise. Metabolic dysfunction. Testosterone, thyroid, sugar. Silence on the other end of the phone. But we always medical problem-solve. This wasn’t the time for it. I can’t believe that was my first reaction. What the hell? What am I becoming? I thought I cared about compassion first, about people first. Perhaps not. I hate this system. Damn education. Damning education. Does knowledge free us or kill us? Two hawks soared, red breasted with talons down, over the park bench today. The sun was still bright enough in the late afternoon that it convinced me to close my eyes and take some deep breaths. There was humanity there, freedom there. Maybe I exaggerate what medical school demands. Maybe I like to buy into the intensity just as much as the point-mongers who have cared about grades since kindergarten. God, I hope not. I love other things too. But obviously I don’t love Richie enough. Fucking guilt complexes. Fingers run through hair and pull because self-destruction sometimes feels exactly right. 7:43
7:48 She’s sipping tea and he’s tapping a shaky hand against his knee. Side-by-side, looking ahead at a crime scene show. They’ve seen it already. She remembers and he doesn’t. He raises an eyebrow at her and she puts down her tea to make some for him. There’s a special cup, the travel mug stained black around the bottom from so many trips in the homemade car holder. The old blue Suzuki wailed down those dirt paths. Now the antelope are only in pictures hung on the walls, the elephants live in the cross-stitch pattern over the doorway. The investigators on television are yelling, the music is intense. Tap Tap Tap, Sip Sip Sip. A chuckle here and a groan there. What is it we’re trying to figure out again? He created and invented and fixed everything – flip-flops to faucets to exercise machine that hangs on the wall. He can figure things out. He could. She organizes. Everything. Saves things. Hangs on. What is she hanging on to tonight. Tap Tap Tap. Sip Sip Sip. Sigh. Eyelids are heavier, foreheads nod. 7:53
By Pandora
7:38 He called about the older friend, Richie, who sleeps through every afternoon. I immediately thought of differential diagnoses. Depression. Insomnia. Alcoholism exacerbating either. Lewey Body dementia. Vascular compromise. Metabolic dysfunction. Testosterone, thyroid, sugar. Silence on the other end of the phone. But we always medical problem-solve. This wasn’t the time for it. I can’t believe that was my first reaction. What the hell? What am I becoming? I thought I cared about compassion first, about people first. Perhaps not. I hate this system. Damn education. Damning education. Does knowledge free us or kill us? Two hawks soared, red breasted with talons down, over the park bench today. The sun was still bright enough in the late afternoon that it convinced me to close my eyes and take some deep breaths. There was humanity there, freedom there. Maybe I exaggerate what medical school demands. Maybe I like to buy into the intensity just as much as the point-mongers who have cared about grades since kindergarten. God, I hope not. I love other things too. But obviously I don’t love Richie enough. Fucking guilt complexes. Fingers run through hair and pull because self-destruction sometimes feels exactly right. 7:43
7:48 She’s sipping tea and he’s tapping a shaky hand against his knee. Side-by-side, looking ahead at a crime scene show. They’ve seen it already. She remembers and he doesn’t. He raises an eyebrow at her and she puts down her tea to make some for him. There’s a special cup, the travel mug stained black around the bottom from so many trips in the homemade car holder. The old blue Suzuki wailed down those dirt paths. Now the antelope are only in pictures hung on the walls, the elephants live in the cross-stitch pattern over the doorway. The investigators on television are yelling, the music is intense. Tap Tap Tap, Sip Sip Sip. A chuckle here and a groan there. What is it we’re trying to figure out again? He created and invented and fixed everything – flip-flops to faucets to exercise machine that hangs on the wall. He can figure things out. He could. She organizes. Everything. Saves things. Hangs on. What is she hanging on to tonight. Tap Tap Tap. Sip Sip Sip. Sigh. Eyelids are heavier, foreheads nod. 7:53
Monday, January 26, 2009
Hmmm... Let's add a 15 minute option
3. One Page in Under 15 Minutes. Topic: Stream of Consciousness + Spellcheck + Carpal Tunnel Syndrome
---5 Minutes. Topic: Stream of Consciousness--
Randall Stevens
26 January 2009
Slow Hands:
"5 Minutes – Stream of Consciousness
Shit, I wish something faster was playing – but great! - here's TOOL:
The end, the beginning – what shall i write in 5 minutes?
(this isn't maynard, but fuck it's close) must be some college dropout rippoff: no vision. he sucks. PAUSE
Red Hot Chilly Peppers on now and not a second too soon. Remember when Weird Al dubbed them? The first time? I had that cassette.
TODAY is the first annual Show Your Penis to a Stranger Day! Ok, I'm not participating, but that's cause Dr. Rork is way the hell down in NH being White. Next time.
Shit, wasting time on deleting – no edit (1:30 to go) – STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS – Keep Going!
Don't Stop!
Beats, Phat Beats, Rocking the mic on my Mac. Mic Mac Mic Mac. I heard Anthony Keetis is tone-deaf. Had you heard that?
Shit
Alarm!
4 ½ minutes up!
10
9
Miss Me!"
.
---5 Minutes. Topic: Stream of Consciousness--
Randall Stevens
26 January 2009
Slow Hands:
"5 Minutes – Stream of Consciousness
Shit, I wish something faster was playing – but great! - here's TOOL:
The end, the beginning – what shall i write in 5 minutes?
(this isn't maynard, but fuck it's close) must be some college dropout rippoff: no vision. he sucks. PAUSE
Red Hot Chilly Peppers on now and not a second too soon. Remember when Weird Al dubbed them? The first time? I had that cassette.
TODAY is the first annual Show Your Penis to a Stranger Day! Ok, I'm not participating, but that's cause Dr. Rork is way the hell down in NH being White. Next time.
Shit, wasting time on deleting – no edit (1:30 to go) – STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS – Keep Going!
Don't Stop!
Beats, Phat Beats, Rocking the mic on my Mac. Mic Mac Mic Mac. I heard Anthony Keetis is tone-deaf. Had you heard that?
Shit
Alarm!
4 ½ minutes up!
10
9
Miss Me!"
.
New Assignment
1. One Page in Under 5 Minutes. Topic: Stream of Consciousness
2. One Page in Under 10 Minutes. Topic: Stream of Consciousness + Spellcheck
2. One Page in Under 10 Minutes. Topic: Stream of Consciousness + Spellcheck
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Writing Assignment: Jim
---Assignment: Tell Jim's Story. (or at least give a snapshot)---
Fringe is the nature of confidence, and I her wayward thread.
I was born, Jameson Trite Daily, but you may call me Little Jim. I go by Jim these days to keep the hounds at bay.
Three years ago I realized my life was less than ordinary and far more than I had counted on. Given the opportunity, I think I would change things back to dull little James with a head full of unfulfilled fantasies. But Jim is a different story.
What is what is , and what is is Jim. And, who is Jim? Even I've yet to find out for sure.
Fringe is the nature of confidence, and I her wayward thread.
I was born, Jameson Trite Daily, but you may call me Little Jim. I go by Jim these days to keep the hounds at bay.
Three years ago I realized my life was less than ordinary and far more than I had counted on. Given the opportunity, I think I would change things back to dull little James with a head full of unfulfilled fantasies. But Jim is a different story.
What is what is , and what is is Jim. And, who is Jim? Even I've yet to find out for sure.
A Reason to Write
For all the unposters out there, please take just under three minutes to consider the following:
http://www.zefrank.com/theshow/archives/2006/07/071106.html
http://www.zefrank.com/theshow/archives/2006/07/071106.html
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