start time: 2:12 pm
As another assignment for my creative writing class, I was asked to describe the physical transformation of a protagonist, as Franz Kafka does in The Metamorphosis.
---
I am becoming my grandfather's pocketwatch. The one I misplaced a week ago.
We were in Salt Lake, and I was to load in the herds at precisely 3:08 pm, when I realized it was missing. But I still heard the ticking.
"All Aboard!" I yelled, and the steady beat persisted. It was different than the meter of my watch--this I could feel inside my bowels.
The next morning, my blue trousers seemed a bit more snug. By the end of the day, I had lost my button. It had shot off in the smoking cabin, flying through the air like an engine at full speed. My waist was widening, growing sideways so that my once narrowest part had become the broadest.
I waddled into the changing room and exchanged my uniform for a larger set. My skin felt cold as I undressed, cool and hard like metal. My face looked a dull, yellowish-bronze in the dirty mirror, like finger smudged gold. I spun myself around and noticed the faintest etch on my back: TDH.
My arms and legs shrunk. The hair on top of my head became rigged, a hinge appeared on my right side, and I felt queasy, as if something was moving around in my gut. I still had no watch and no real sense of time. But I prayed that we were on schedule, and used my internal ticking to count the minutes at each station.
But it is my job to know the time, to inform passengers of our progress, to give the appearance of quality, expertise, and efficiency. When asked, I'd rely on my knowledge of schedule and the racing scenery and guess. "We're scheduled to arrive in Sacramento at 4:09, Sir. I'd say we're about an hour away."
But today as I wobbled down the aisle, punching holes into passengers’ tickets, a woman insisted for the precise time, as I had it.
I shrugged, and pushed the bump that has been swelling atop of my head. Instantly, my jacket swung open, my belly gaping like a clam and revealing a tea-stained face with black roman numerals and hands. "11:42 on the dot."
I snapped myself closed and rolled into the next car.
end time: 3:33 pm
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
the exquisite corpse
start time: 7:32 pm
"The exquisite corpse shall drink the new wine."
A few weeks ago (yet again in my creative writing class), I was introduced to the "exquisite corpse" method. Invented by the Surrealists in an attempt to break one's imagination free from the constraints of the subconscious, it is a phrase or sentence collectively assembled in a group that follows a basic rule.
Our rule was a favored standard: (1) article and adjective; (2) noun; (3) verb; (4) article and adjective; (5) noun.
"The butterfly moon eats a screaming comb."
The following short piece was inspired by this sentence.
---
In my town, no one believes that cheese comes from milk. Milk is Magic. It appears in the empty glass bottles we leave at our side door each morning, and vanishes into our coffees and cakes, with our cereals and cookies. In no way does it have anything to do with cheese. Cheese is not Magic; we know exactly where it comes from.
The man in the moon makes our cheese, and each night he shuttles down blue cheese crumbles and blocks of brie to us on the backs of tiny space-cows and tiny space-goats, who ride shooting stars while listening to Bach, or so it was written very long ago.
But in my family, we know the secret behind it all, that this simply isn’t true. Cheese does come from milk--milk from cows and goats, sure, but ones who live on farms and chew on grass all day long.
The man in the moon, in fact, is a fake. He’s a cover up for something even more fantastic and remarkable, something completely beyond the imaginations of rational beings (which, is why, I’m forced to have faith in her existence): the Moon Bunny.
She has ears that stick up and soft fur, but other than that the Moon Bunny is unlike any bunny around here. She doesn't wiggle her nose nor chomp on carrots. No, this bunny is far more wonderful. She is a keeper of sacred butterflies. (But, just like this fantastic bunny, these butterflies are unlike any butterflies you or I have ever seen.)
Each day, before the moon has risen and after it has set, the Moon Bunny hops around her lunar Eden, tending to brightly colored flowers and a nursery of caterpillars. Once they’ve swaddled themselves in their silk cocoons, she coaxes them out with a lullaby and gives them a good scratch with a screaming comb. They hover amongst the sweet flowers for just a while and then, when they are all ready, she releases them into space for us to see, and as they flutter they reflect the shine of the sun.
“Meteor showers,” our scientists call them. And how quick everyone is to believe!
end time: 8:50 pm
"The exquisite corpse shall drink the new wine."
A few weeks ago (yet again in my creative writing class), I was introduced to the "exquisite corpse" method. Invented by the Surrealists in an attempt to break one's imagination free from the constraints of the subconscious, it is a phrase or sentence collectively assembled in a group that follows a basic rule.
Our rule was a favored standard: (1) article and adjective; (2) noun; (3) verb; (4) article and adjective; (5) noun.
"The butterfly moon eats a screaming comb."
The following short piece was inspired by this sentence.
---
In my town, no one believes that cheese comes from milk. Milk is Magic. It appears in the empty glass bottles we leave at our side door each morning, and vanishes into our coffees and cakes, with our cereals and cookies. In no way does it have anything to do with cheese. Cheese is not Magic; we know exactly where it comes from.
The man in the moon makes our cheese, and each night he shuttles down blue cheese crumbles and blocks of brie to us on the backs of tiny space-cows and tiny space-goats, who ride shooting stars while listening to Bach, or so it was written very long ago.
But in my family, we know the secret behind it all, that this simply isn’t true. Cheese does come from milk--milk from cows and goats, sure, but ones who live on farms and chew on grass all day long.
The man in the moon, in fact, is a fake. He’s a cover up for something even more fantastic and remarkable, something completely beyond the imaginations of rational beings (which, is why, I’m forced to have faith in her existence): the Moon Bunny.
She has ears that stick up and soft fur, but other than that the Moon Bunny is unlike any bunny around here. She doesn't wiggle her nose nor chomp on carrots. No, this bunny is far more wonderful. She is a keeper of sacred butterflies. (But, just like this fantastic bunny, these butterflies are unlike any butterflies you or I have ever seen.)
Each day, before the moon has risen and after it has set, the Moon Bunny hops around her lunar Eden, tending to brightly colored flowers and a nursery of caterpillars. Once they’ve swaddled themselves in their silk cocoons, she coaxes them out with a lullaby and gives them a good scratch with a screaming comb. They hover amongst the sweet flowers for just a while and then, when they are all ready, she releases them into space for us to see, and as they flutter they reflect the shine of the sun.
“Meteor showers,” our scientists call them. And how quick everyone is to believe!
end time: 8:50 pm
Sunday, February 12, 2012
my own Ithaca
start time: 9:05 am
I recently read C.P. Cavafy's poem, Ithaca, in a creative writing class. As an assignment, we were asked to write about our own Ithaca, about returning home after learning from the journey of life.
---
Young Emily did not know what she was getting herself into (or what she was putting into herself, for that matter) when she had that first bite of thai noodles. The sweetness and unfamiliar spice, with a hint of peanut and a scramble of egg, immediately altered her perception of taste. Soon her taste buds would no longer tolerate the standard spaghetti and sauce, or the grilled chicken and broccoli, but demanded something different.
So she set out, traveling far and wide, to discover what her mouth had been craving. She relished in the coconut cream of curries and humble lentils, in saffron yellow paellas and the thick red of fresh jams. The world was to be seen, not of nations and markets, but of pomegranates and eggplants, of herbs and greens, and she began to note her travels by the tastes and smells each city would bring. Geneva was rich with fondues of chocolates and cheese; Aleppo studded with roasted pistachios; Shanghai calmed by tiny cups of tea; and Cairo congested with the steams and sizzles of street meats. Occasionally she met a sweet or a dip she disliked, but she did not allow this minor disagreement to disrupt the completion of her quest for the mouth’s best.
And then, some time later, on a holiday’s eve, she realized what she had been longing for. For even though she sought refuge in the colorful concoctions of fantastic foods, and had learned from the most exotic of epicures, it was the modest, homemade pie that warmed her heart. Simple—sugared and spiced with only cinnamon and a dash of salt—served with a single scoop of vanilla cream, was what she loved most.
end time: 10:23 am
I recently read C.P. Cavafy's poem, Ithaca, in a creative writing class. As an assignment, we were asked to write about our own Ithaca, about returning home after learning from the journey of life.
---
Young Emily did not know what she was getting herself into (or what she was putting into herself, for that matter) when she had that first bite of thai noodles. The sweetness and unfamiliar spice, with a hint of peanut and a scramble of egg, immediately altered her perception of taste. Soon her taste buds would no longer tolerate the standard spaghetti and sauce, or the grilled chicken and broccoli, but demanded something different.
So she set out, traveling far and wide, to discover what her mouth had been craving. She relished in the coconut cream of curries and humble lentils, in saffron yellow paellas and the thick red of fresh jams. The world was to be seen, not of nations and markets, but of pomegranates and eggplants, of herbs and greens, and she began to note her travels by the tastes and smells each city would bring. Geneva was rich with fondues of chocolates and cheese; Aleppo studded with roasted pistachios; Shanghai calmed by tiny cups of tea; and Cairo congested with the steams and sizzles of street meats. Occasionally she met a sweet or a dip she disliked, but she did not allow this minor disagreement to disrupt the completion of her quest for the mouth’s best.
And then, some time later, on a holiday’s eve, she realized what she had been longing for. For even though she sought refuge in the colorful concoctions of fantastic foods, and had learned from the most exotic of epicures, it was the modest, homemade pie that warmed her heart. Simple—sugared and spiced with only cinnamon and a dash of salt—served with a single scoop of vanilla cream, was what she loved most.
end time: 10:23 am
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