ATTERCOP


Thesius WIP
August 22, 2010, 1:18 pm
Filed under: art, literature, Mysteries | Tags: , , , ,

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Inspired by Threading Stone, a book of poetry by a professor I admire.

More updates soon.

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Micro-Pseudo-Fiction
July 28, 2010, 12:30 am
Filed under: literature, Mysteries | Tags: , ,

He had friends with names like Chiffon, or Dmitri. I have no idea where he found these people but it wasn’t in the same place he found me. I was crawling around in the Do-It-Yourself section of the local mega-sized bookstore looking for something about chicken keeping for leisure. We broke up two months later.

The rules, according to a friend, are write a short story that’s fifty-five words long. Another recovered scrap from my hard-drive.



Jarrett’s Sonnet 1
July 28, 2010, 12:23 am
Filed under: literature, Mysteries | Tags:

When sitting, oft the sitter’s eyes will glance
On nearby movement, and with little scan,
He tries his best, the sitter, to advance,
His knowledge of the virtues of a man.
A tallish, fellow, with penumbras gate,
With hair and hands and details very small.
The man in question seems almost too straight;
To bear the things the sitter seeks at all.
This sitter marks the air the passers lends,
And makes a mental note, to later think,
Whom he could see, or, Providence chagrins,
Whom he could catch, and hold, and fin’ly sink.
    For in this World there’s more than ample time,
    For lonely men, internal peeks to climb.

 

I found this kicking around my Documents folder just now. I remember writing it but I don’t remember when. I know where, I was in the market.



Gettin’ Back In The Literary Saddle

Well, the summer semester is just moments from ending and I couldn’t be happier. Autumn will come soon and with her bring cooler weather, more friends, and new classes. My schedule is as follows:

MONDAY TUESDAY WEDNESDAY THURSDAY
Sculpture (9:30 – noon) Writing Fic.
(11-12:15p)
Sculpture (9:30 – noon) Writing Fic.
(11-12:15p)
Photography
(1:30 – 4p)
Art History
(5:30-6:45p)
Photography
(1:30 – 4p)
Art History
(5:30-6:45p)

Busy but satisfying, I hope.

An article linked on huffpost got me looking into novels of the ancient world (it seems the proto-novel was not Robinson Crusoe) and I turned up a couple treasures I will now hunt for copies of.

 

https://attercop.files.wordpress.com/2010/07/genji.jpg?w=262

The Tale of Genji

Written in the early eleventh century this book seems like my cup of tea. Ancient cultures, aristocracy, fairy-take creatures, a hero, it’s got it all. Plus Yoshitaka Amano apparently did a book of illustration for it, so, I’m sold.

https://i1.wp.com/www.rulon.com/Catpages/internetcat/bindings/dasent.jpg

The Story of Burnt Njal

Now this looks fantastic. It’s an Icelandic traditional from about the 13th century. I read the first little bit of it concerning this man named Fiddle and his daughter Unna.

 

Honestly, I don’t know which one I’m more excited about. I’ll admit that I adored The Lovely Bones and I’m sure The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo is going to be enchanting; still, it’s really refreshing to be enthusiastic about something that’s not on the best seller list or has movies made about it.

Now y’all have a nice Summer terminus, as for me I’ve got a math project to finish and a paper about Hamlet to write.

 

-Joshua



Revolver
May 3, 2010, 10:24 am
Filed under: Blogging, literature, Mysteries | Tags: , ,

SONNET 29

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess’d,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.




Letter to a dead aunt
November 2, 2009, 12:32 am
Filed under: literature, Mysteries | Tags:

Dear Aunt M,

I didn’t know you. I mean, I knew your face and name and that you were Mama’s sister and you knew my face and name and that I was her grand-son, but there wasn’t anything past that. I don’t know if you ever found out about how you died. It was on the news.

It was your husband, G. I don’t know why he did it, but the same string broke in him that broke in an unusual amount of men in that side of the family. One day, while you were in bed with your emphysema and Alzheimer’s he scooped you up in his arms and carried you outside into the summer twilight and laid you on the dark, warm lawn. Then he shot you. I don’t know why. I know that for more than fifty years he loved you more than anybody loved anything. So, it wasn’t the real him that did it. But, he shot you. Then he shot little J, y’all’s nine year old grandson. He was running and screaming like he does and G shot him. I’m sure he’s not so autistic in whatever place you are now, but I wouldn’t tell him what happened anyway. He doesn’t have to know these things until he’s older.

After G had done these things he sit down in a lawn chair beside were you were laying and shot himself in the heart. Then he dropped the gun and followed you two.

What most people still here said at the funerals was the worst part was that your daughter, D, saw it all. That’s how I know these things. She told S who told Mama who told my mother who told me while I drove her down to Norcross so she wouldn’t be alone that night.

I watched a reporter on TV stand in your backyard while I ate left-overs.

I’m sorry you were killed. I don’t know why it happened. I hope that were you are now you can breathe easily and that your short term memory has returned. And I hope you’re with G and that you can both see through the frail, mortal, misery that rotted out his heart for that one moment. The way Mama talks about you I know you couldn’t resent him.

You’re buried near R., who I called Granddaddy. If he’s there with you when you get this letter, please, tell him I love him. And that his wife, G, who I call Mama, didn’t break when he left. Tell him that she’s made of stronger stuff than stars, and that we all look up to her. And that when she leaves to be with y’all that it might be us that break.

With love, your grand-nephew,
Joshua



Recalibrate
October 2, 2009, 5:13 pm
Filed under: literature, Mysteries

The most surprising thing about the antlers was how much it bled when one was broken off. The blood was hot and it splashed red over my ear and shoulder. Why are the people most unwilling and unable to fight given arms and forced to? I looked up at my opponent in the blue, he’s younger than me. He was smiling. He was smiling because he won and he broke me and I was bleeding. There was no point to this contest.

The grass around the clock tower was green and short and coarse, and for a moment I registered the brown dirt beneath. The shock and pain arrived then. My vision went fuzzy and dark and I vomited, and I could still feel him looking at the back of my head, content and pleased with his work.

That morning I woke up and something was wrong with the world. Grass grew up in the halls and all the architecture was stones and living rock. I walked barefoot through the trees and my friends and comrades commented on the antlers growing out between the strands of long brown hair on both sides of my head. I sat on the parking deck and looked at the water tower, and thought about fighting. There’s no one anywhere who’s really worth fighting, not in this context, not when the world had grown so quiet. When everything we were and built started drifting backwards and sideways.

I have dreams of orca whales and owls but I wake up in fear.  There’s no framing for the fear, it’s irrational but it’s there.

I get up, get dressed, and there are antlers growing from my skull. Not stumpy ones either, biggish ones, a little like an adolescent stag. I immediately know what they’re for, fighting. Why am I being armed? What quarrel are these bone knives here to resolve?

The day passes normally. I ride the bus; I drink orange juice; I sit in class. Everyone has about the same situation as me. I see plenty of other students with horns or antlers, each dealing with it in their own way. Most of them felt the same peace and normality about the whole thing that I did. There were a few though that didn’t take it as well.  One boy just denied that he even had them. We pointed and showed him and held up a mirror, all he said was that didn’t care if we had antlers, but he “wasn’t like that.” Another group just tore off all their clothes and ran into the forest. We never saw them again except late at night standing in the road and looking nostalgic and terrified.

I recline on the steps of the clock tower and watch my peers go about their day, some moving in safe groups, others out on their own, and a few of them in pairs. I was jealous but I’m not sure of whom, the ones in pairs or the ones choosing to be alone, their antlers the largest and strongest.

My opponent approaches me in the summery haze, I recognize him immediately. I understood those tender limbs and quick eyes in an earlier time, but that time is now over. This is why he wants to fight: he lied to me and I rejected him.

We clash. We beat and bite and converge. Blood and sweat and it’s over quicker than you’d believe. I should have won but I didn’t; my horn is broken. I want to gather up the pieces but they sicken and terrify me, so my roommate does.

I survive but I’m very badly injured.  The antler begins to grow back; it is covered with a thin membrane of soft skin called velvet which will supply blood and oxygen to the maturing bone. When it gets large enough the velvet will shed and the horn will be revealed, dry and lifeless. It’s only considered finished growing and mature once it’s dead.