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get your samurai groove on....
This post is pretty random. First of all, you should go see my new blog layout because it kicks ass. At least, I think it does. Yay for having no idea how to use Photoshop!
Anyway, last night I went to see Chuck Palahniuk speak at the Memorial Union, which was amazing. He's one of the nicest people I've ever seen. So awesome. Afterward, I was writing for a while, and this is what came out.
The first part is prose, in which I find Lanif's voice. Lanif's always been a very flat character for me, without much of a personality. Not any more! Lately, I've been thinking I might be telling this story from alternating points of view. Which means I need a few different styles at my fingertips. So here's Lanif's.
My name is Lanif. No one else has ever had the name Lanif, and I don’t think anyone else ever will. Its origin lies in no ethnicity. There is no famous hero or mythological creature named Lanif. My mother made it up, just for me. She wants people to think that she is artistic. That she is creative. Which is understandable, I guess. Most people who are filthy rich try to construct souls they can pin to their sleeves, proclaiming to the world that they do care about the little brown children who make their overpriced clothing. Please don’t misunderstand me. It’s not that I don’t love my mother – I do. Everyone loves their parents on some level. I just understand my mother. I understand just about everyone I’ve ever met. Lots of people think that empathy is some kind of special gift that people are born having. It’s not. To be empathetic, you need to be able to strip everything of its bullshit. Just about everything is covered in bullshit, so once you look past all of it, the truth is sitting right there. Usually crying and trying to hide its nakedness and vulnerability, but it’s there.
My parents taught me how to be polite. Basically, there’s only one rule. You must converse only about the most obscure, meaningless topics. Your conversations must be so worthless that they make you want to crawl out of your skin. That’s about it. I’m pretty good at it.
(This will be longer, but at that point I hit a wall and switched to poetry)
The second part is random stuff I started writing that kind of formed a poem. I was in an odd mood last night, so...that's what happened.
Let me break it down
And spell it out simply
In a language
Few will understand.
My soul is grey, heavy,
I can feel it sinking,
beneath the stinking pits
of the inside of my body.
I collapse,
Fold in on myself,
Cover it up,
Hide my face and let the hair hang down
You can’t touch me,
Your words make me flinch.
I think of all the things I want to do,
Instead I kneel here, prostrate,
Covering it, hiding it,
Sobbing back and forth,
Keening noises escaping from my throat,
There are no voices,
There is no inner pain,
There is no darkness.
There are just tears,
Colorless and soulless.
I see them in midair,
Shaking and separated.
I crawl into the quiet dark place
and wait.
Anyway, last night I went to see Chuck Palahniuk speak at the Memorial Union, which was amazing. He's one of the nicest people I've ever seen. So awesome. Afterward, I was writing for a while, and this is what came out.
The first part is prose, in which I find Lanif's voice. Lanif's always been a very flat character for me, without much of a personality. Not any more! Lately, I've been thinking I might be telling this story from alternating points of view. Which means I need a few different styles at my fingertips. So here's Lanif's.
My name is Lanif. No one else has ever had the name Lanif, and I don’t think anyone else ever will. Its origin lies in no ethnicity. There is no famous hero or mythological creature named Lanif. My mother made it up, just for me. She wants people to think that she is artistic. That she is creative. Which is understandable, I guess. Most people who are filthy rich try to construct souls they can pin to their sleeves, proclaiming to the world that they do care about the little brown children who make their overpriced clothing. Please don’t misunderstand me. It’s not that I don’t love my mother – I do. Everyone loves their parents on some level. I just understand my mother. I understand just about everyone I’ve ever met. Lots of people think that empathy is some kind of special gift that people are born having. It’s not. To be empathetic, you need to be able to strip everything of its bullshit. Just about everything is covered in bullshit, so once you look past all of it, the truth is sitting right there. Usually crying and trying to hide its nakedness and vulnerability, but it’s there.
My parents taught me how to be polite. Basically, there’s only one rule. You must converse only about the most obscure, meaningless topics. Your conversations must be so worthless that they make you want to crawl out of your skin. That’s about it. I’m pretty good at it.
(This will be longer, but at that point I hit a wall and switched to poetry)
The second part is random stuff I started writing that kind of formed a poem. I was in an odd mood last night, so...that's what happened.
Let me break it down
And spell it out simply
In a language
Few will understand.
My soul is grey, heavy,
I can feel it sinking,
beneath the stinking pits
of the inside of my body.
I collapse,
Fold in on myself,
Cover it up,
Hide my face and let the hair hang down
You can’t touch me,
Your words make me flinch.
I think of all the things I want to do,
Instead I kneel here, prostrate,
Covering it, hiding it,
Sobbing back and forth,
Keening noises escaping from my throat,
There are no voices,
There is no inner pain,
There is no darkness.
There are just tears,
Colorless and soulless.
I see them in midair,
Shaking and separated.
I crawl into the quiet dark place
and wait.
no subject
You saw Chuck Palahniuk? I seethe with envy.
Nice poem, by the way. like the imagery.
no subject