Response to Mackenzie's "Improv Week 12"
Mackenzie,
I have mostly specific comments. Firstly, the last phrase in "stockings that twinkle and rub with desire" can be taken out entirely, leaving "stockings that twinkle and rub." The desire is implied (or "for free") in stockings, Bond, and the word "rub." Another phrase I think could be removed is "James Bond" in lines 4/5. I get the reference, but it distracts more than it adds. The section starting with "Two kids there" and ending with "I was told" needs a little clarification. I think you are refering to different rooms, but it is vague. Also, "half-brothers" comes after the games instead of the people, which is somewhat confusing. Overall, your imagery is great, specific and varied, and you have a very straight-forward kind of speaking style. Well done, keep revising.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Calisthenic 1, Week 12
The art of interrogation (p 102)
Excuse me, sir (or maybe
ma'am) but may I ask why
you are here in my house?
This is my brown-plaid blanket
you're crawling on, you see,
my gold plush chair. And
it's not that I am particularly
possessive; nevertheless,
you do have this stinger on
your backside. A beautiful
little evolution like this surely
does not demand the death
penalty, but I'm also afraid
I can talk no reason to you.
Where I'm getting is here:
Will you please be kind and
cooperative enough to hop
right into this glass jar? I will
set you free outside, to get back
to your hive, my butterfly bushes,
your sweet larvae. Why ever
leave these in the first place?
Why abandon the fresh smell
of dewy morning mist, each
flower's distinctive nectar, for
the fibers in my throw, the
coolness of air conditioning,
and the darkness accompanying
life played out under a roof?
Excuse me, sir (or maybe
ma'am) but may I ask why
you are here in my house?
This is my brown-plaid blanket
you're crawling on, you see,
my gold plush chair. And
it's not that I am particularly
possessive; nevertheless,
you do have this stinger on
your backside. A beautiful
little evolution like this surely
does not demand the death
penalty, but I'm also afraid
I can talk no reason to you.
Where I'm getting is here:
Will you please be kind and
cooperative enough to hop
right into this glass jar? I will
set you free outside, to get back
to your hive, my butterfly bushes,
your sweet larvae. Why ever
leave these in the first place?
Why abandon the fresh smell
of dewy morning mist, each
flower's distinctive nectar, for
the fibers in my throw, the
coolness of air conditioning,
and the darkness accompanying
life played out under a roof?
Improv. 1, Week 12
from "The Chiming of the Hour", Dan Albergotti
"The is the gray day that the Lord hath made.
She hears the soft, rapid ticking of the clock
beside her bed and how it mingles with
the bells outside. The woman does not know
why the wind chimes sound altogether different
in the winter months. She does no know
what puts her in her navy dress and heels,
behind the wheel of her husband's old sedan,
and into the pew they sat in all those years."
She does not know why she chooses
the color blue for her bedroom,
"seaside mist" to be specific, in
semi-gloss. Something brings her
to wicker weaving, simple chairs
with light, linen cushions, and chests
sanded down, corners rusted by time.
She hears the soft, rapid fluttering
as a mixture of snow, hail, and rain
fall outside her old Chicago bricks.
What drove her to law school in
the middle of a city whose trademark
grey-and-white birds are pigeons?
She leans over her fifth-floor
balcony when the salt trucks pass,
closing her eyes, imagining
the oily, melted ice to be the
friendly sea, the salty scent
foaming into the air, catching
the breeze and leaving a thin,
dusty layer on sun-worn skin.
"The is the gray day that the Lord hath made.
She hears the soft, rapid ticking of the clock
beside her bed and how it mingles with
the bells outside. The woman does not know
why the wind chimes sound altogether different
in the winter months. She does no know
what puts her in her navy dress and heels,
behind the wheel of her husband's old sedan,
and into the pew they sat in all those years."
She does not know why she chooses
the color blue for her bedroom,
"seaside mist" to be specific, in
semi-gloss. Something brings her
to wicker weaving, simple chairs
with light, linen cushions, and chests
sanded down, corners rusted by time.
She hears the soft, rapid fluttering
as a mixture of snow, hail, and rain
fall outside her old Chicago bricks.
What drove her to law school in
the middle of a city whose trademark
grey-and-white birds are pigeons?
She leans over her fifth-floor
balcony when the salt trucks pass,
closing her eyes, imagining
the oily, melted ice to be the
friendly sea, the salty scent
foaming into the air, catching
the breeze and leaving a thin,
dusty layer on sun-worn skin.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 12
"It's weird to think there's an infinite number of sounds you can make with your mouth." -a girl in the hallway
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 12
"Our bakers bake
fresh bread from
fresh dough every
day in every
bakery-cafe."
-Panera Bread advertisement on Pandora
The greatest thing is that it was written out like this, in a little stanza, complete with visual repetitions and a rhyme.
fresh bread from
fresh dough every
day in every
bakery-cafe."
-Panera Bread advertisement on Pandora
The greatest thing is that it was written out like this, in a little stanza, complete with visual repetitions and a rhyme.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Improv. 1, Week 11
from "Cigarettes" by B. H. Fairchild (p 106)
"Yes, they kill you, but so do television and bureaucrats
and the drugged tedium of certain rooms piped
with tasteful music where we have all sat waiting
for someone to enter with a silver plate laden
with Camels and Lucky Strikes, someone who leans
into our ears and tells us that the day's work is done,
and done well, offers us black coffee in white cups,
and whispers the way trees whisper, yes, yes, oh yes."
Yes, they kill you, but so do parents and plastic
and the bad taste of sudden allergies, passed
down from who-knows-who and triggered by
who-knows-what, swelling shut your throat
by the third bite of boiled shrimp laden
with garlic, basil, and set out upon
a silver plate. At least with cigarettes
the onset is never so sudden, so unexpected:
an early dinner with family friends, started
with coffee, and ended with you're done.
"Yes, they kill you, but so do television and bureaucrats
and the drugged tedium of certain rooms piped
with tasteful music where we have all sat waiting
for someone to enter with a silver plate laden
with Camels and Lucky Strikes, someone who leans
into our ears and tells us that the day's work is done,
and done well, offers us black coffee in white cups,
and whispers the way trees whisper, yes, yes, oh yes."
Yes, they kill you, but so do parents and plastic
and the bad taste of sudden allergies, passed
down from who-knows-who and triggered by
who-knows-what, swelling shut your throat
by the third bite of boiled shrimp laden
with garlic, basil, and set out upon
a silver plate. At least with cigarettes
the onset is never so sudden, so unexpected:
an early dinner with family friends, started
with coffee, and ended with you're done.
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