(a writing assignment)
Be it a page or a paragraph, enjoy.
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
The Classroom
---"Success"---
Randall Stevens
13 October 2008
The Classroom
“Define Success,” the tweed clad professor asked as he strode through the large oak-paneled classroom. It was filled with 16-17 year old students wearing red blazers over white oxford shirts and blue and red plaid ties.
“Success,” said a chipper young girl with auburn hair, “Is the souls achievement of its most foundational dreams.” The class groaned. The one other girl in the room looked away, holding back equal parts laughter and embarrassment. The only difference in dress between these two and the twenty or so males making up the majority of the class were their knee-length wool skirts and white socks in place of the boys' khaki slacks.
“Thank you, my dear.” said the professor, cleaning his glasses on a silk tie. “That was,” he paused, “informative. Anyone else?” A stocky, red-faced youth with a military buzz-cut half coughed and grunted before raising his fingertips.
“Yeah, uh. Success is- success is like...”
“I did not ask what success is like,” the professor interjected, suddenly stern. “I asked you to define it. Anyone else?” A pigeon-chested boy with greasy black hair and ubiquitous acne inched his hand into the air. “Yes, Mr. Mendle?”
“I think success,” he began slowly, “Is meeting your goals, and...”
“And what are your goals, Mr. Mendle? Showing up to class on time, maybe? Not too successful this morning then. And what about yours, Mr. Anderson?” A squat red haired boy choked and sputtered, spilling water down his shirt.
“Me?” he asked, recapping his water bottle.”
“You, Mr. Anderson. What are your goals?”
“I dunno,” he said. “A house, maybe. Wife, kids, a good job? What do you mean?” he added, noticing the snickering faces around the room.
“And you, James?” asked the professor, ignoring this comment. He motioned to the sallow, symmetrically faced blonde man standing at the back window. “What tickles your fancy.”
“Hm?” the blonde man grunted, glancing away from the window and looking vaguely in the professor's direction.
“What tickles your fancy, James,” enunciated the professor.
“Hmm,” he frowned, “Usually my wife.” The class erupted in laughter as the man turned back to whomever it was he was watching stroll across the back lawn. The chipper young girl who'd spoken earlier turned faintly pink and leafed through her copy of Civics: A Pursuit, before the professor finally spoke again,
“Informative,” he said slowly, “As always, Professor Tucker.” The blonde man glanced up again, nodding briefly before returning to his vigil. “Informative.”
Randall Stevens
13 October 2008
The Classroom
“Define Success,” the tweed clad professor asked as he strode through the large oak-paneled classroom. It was filled with 16-17 year old students wearing red blazers over white oxford shirts and blue and red plaid ties.
“Success,” said a chipper young girl with auburn hair, “Is the souls achievement of its most foundational dreams.” The class groaned. The one other girl in the room looked away, holding back equal parts laughter and embarrassment. The only difference in dress between these two and the twenty or so males making up the majority of the class were their knee-length wool skirts and white socks in place of the boys' khaki slacks.
“Thank you, my dear.” said the professor, cleaning his glasses on a silk tie. “That was,” he paused, “informative. Anyone else?” A stocky, red-faced youth with a military buzz-cut half coughed and grunted before raising his fingertips.
“Yeah, uh. Success is- success is like...”
“I did not ask what success is like,” the professor interjected, suddenly stern. “I asked you to define it. Anyone else?” A pigeon-chested boy with greasy black hair and ubiquitous acne inched his hand into the air. “Yes, Mr. Mendle?”
“I think success,” he began slowly, “Is meeting your goals, and...”
“And what are your goals, Mr. Mendle? Showing up to class on time, maybe? Not too successful this morning then. And what about yours, Mr. Anderson?” A squat red haired boy choked and sputtered, spilling water down his shirt.
“Me?” he asked, recapping his water bottle.”
“You, Mr. Anderson. What are your goals?”
“I dunno,” he said. “A house, maybe. Wife, kids, a good job? What do you mean?” he added, noticing the snickering faces around the room.
“And you, James?” asked the professor, ignoring this comment. He motioned to the sallow, symmetrically faced blonde man standing at the back window. “What tickles your fancy.”
“Hm?” the blonde man grunted, glancing away from the window and looking vaguely in the professor's direction.
“What tickles your fancy, James,” enunciated the professor.
“Hmm,” he frowned, “Usually my wife.” The class erupted in laughter as the man turned back to whomever it was he was watching stroll across the back lawn. The chipper young girl who'd spoken earlier turned faintly pink and leafed through her copy of Civics: A Pursuit, before the professor finally spoke again,
“Informative,” he said slowly, “As always, Professor Tucker.” The blonde man glanced up again, nodding briefly before returning to his vigil. “Informative.”
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Seasonality
Randall Stevens
---“Seasonality” [poetry or prose]---
the end will come like a
thief in the light to this
good good world
and all the
talk backers, the knuckle crackers,
their hoods tied tight
will say, “this
world we're partin' in an open-air market
on the sidewalk, tonight.”
and,
We
'll say,
“What went wrong?”
---“Seasonality” [poetry or prose]---
the end will come like a
thief in the light to this
good good world
and all the
talk backers, the knuckle crackers,
their hoods tied tight
will say, “this
world we're partin' in an open-air market
on the sidewalk, tonight.”
and,
We
'll say,
“What went wrong?”
Morning Attempts
By Pandora
In response to listed assignments.
The Stray (55 Words)
Five husbands and one now who is not. Venturing out when she won’t be seen. Rejected. Ashamed.
The crazy man: rebel, prophet, both? He speaks of health and truth.
“Are you thirsty?”
Of course: she’s alone, expelled, a stray.
Does it matter if he’s crazy? He’s bothering. Vulnerable, honest. A secret. A new, unexpected Intimacy.
Last Words (One Sentence)
With one foot in the next world and two hands clinging to this one, specifically to the child’s thin forearm in this one, she sputters about meatballs and wars and terrible light before drawing a breath and expelling with a squeal the only eloquent phrase of her life: “Hope, baby, just hope.”
In response to listed assignments.
The Stray (55 Words)
Five husbands and one now who is not. Venturing out when she won’t be seen. Rejected. Ashamed.
The crazy man: rebel, prophet, both? He speaks of health and truth.
“Are you thirsty?”
Of course: she’s alone, expelled, a stray.
Does it matter if he’s crazy? He’s bothering. Vulnerable, honest. A secret. A new, unexpected Intimacy.
Last Words (One Sentence)
With one foot in the next world and two hands clinging to this one, specifically to the child’s thin forearm in this one, she sputters about meatballs and wars and terrible light before drawing a breath and expelling with a squeal the only eloquent phrase of her life: “Hope, baby, just hope.”
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