View allAll Photos Tagged CreativeWriting
We are passionate about bringing a relaxed approach while creating beautiful, natural and vibrant images.
www.society6.com/studio/virtuejofern
@virtuejofernart on Twitter
Virtue Jo Fern
Queensberry St Art Studios
North Melbourne
www.society6.com/studio/virtuejofern
@virtuejofernart on Twitter
Virtue Jo Fern
Queensberry St Art Studios
North Melbourne
Beauty, even in death,
Is related to life. The spark
Dyes the translucent veins
In a memory of times past.
Is related to life the spark
Near the edge: nature is red.
In a memory of times past
She licks her lips and nails.
Near the edge, nature is red.
Her smiles are never benignant
She licks her lips and nails
Disguising the evidence.
Her smiles are never benignant
As she raises the mirror
Disguising the evidence
With a lipstick in hand.
As she raises the mirror
She paints words on her face
With a lipstick in hand
Dusting her own features.
She paints words on her face
Dusting her own features
Taking away the red:
Beauty, even in death.
(Pantoum by SiRiChandra)
They found her at the bottom of the stairs, eyes closed like the ones on porcelain dolls when you lay them down on the floor. Brown locks of hair spilled from the roots in her head like blood leaking from the skull. It was only hours before the whole town learned that she was gone. Her spirit or soul, if you believe in the spirit or soul, went to wherever you believe the spirt or soul go to after death. It didn't matter where the inner life of her went, what mattered was that her body was still peculiarly draped across the stairs. The scene appeared like a painting. Everyone wondered why such a beautiful girl, such a talented girl, such smart girl, such a girl who had an entire future ahead of her, would be careless enough to die on the stairs. Some suggested suicide, but her parents and friends claimed that oh no, why would such a beautiful girl, such a talented girl, such a smart girl, such a girl who had an entire future ahead of her, take her own life. The cat perched itself next to the body and blinked every few seconds, debating whether the porcelain doll had lost her life climbing up the stairs, or going down. That cat was clever. That was a clever cat, indeed.
163
Reading, writing, studying, taking pictures -
that's what I've been up to lately. And, of course, settling in the new city, at a new university, and a new flat with 3 new flatmates. So much input at a time! My room still looks a little messy, and I haven't figured out a lot of stuff around here, but then again there is no real need to rush, I have only been here for three weeks now.
I have been reading a lot lately, partly due to the new semester and hundreds of pages of course work, and partly because I have stumbled across a Bookcrossing spot only 100 meters from my new home and picked up 3 books. Plus I have signed up for membership at the local library in addition to the university library and took 12(?) books home.
Most of them are on creative writing, since I'm preparing for next month (November is the National Novel Writing Month). The picture above shows one of these books, The Virginia Woolf Writer's Workshop. It's a nice read, especially if you like Virginia Woolf and are a bit familiar with her writing, but even without that there are some helpful tips and ideas on writing.
And I have been taking this books and a notebook wherever I went the past two weeks and whenever there was some time, I tried a little writing exercise. Still, I really need to get more disciplined in order to succeed even remotely next month. We will see.
#bnwmood #bnwsouls #bnw_life #societyfeelings #blackandwhiteonly #blackandwhiteisworththefight #blackwhitephotography #bnw_planet#monochromatic #igpakistan #spilledink #portait #selfportrait #instagram #words #creativeminds #imaginetones #bnw_captures #liveauthentic #life #portrait #dream #creativewriting #mobilemag #visuals#ourmoodydays #creativecompositions #sunset #clouds
294/365
It's National Why I Write day or something of the sort and I told Ms. Proulx that I'd dedicate my 365 for today to it.
So.
I write because sometimes life doesn't bring me where I want how I want and instead of getting out there and being all assertive and annoying and whatnot I can go and pretend it happened by channeling the music-loving/emotion-feeling/self-aware romantic in myself (not hard, I should say. It doesn't actually need any channelling at all) and opening my laptop and creating a character that reminds most people uncannily of the author herself and creating a situation that is mysteriously parallel to something that happened recently. Except there's always a perfect ending.
Either that or I'm just in the mood for something to read and I can't find anything to read that suits my criteria for what I want to read about so I'm just like "screw this I'll write it myself"
That's actually what happens most of the time but the former situation makes me sound much more eloquent.
New professional/portfolio account!! www.flickr.com/photos/megreillyprofessional/
The softest midnight airstream spoils the trees,
Jiggling discoloured leaves that we know green
Against a black-blue dish, stirred by the breeze.
We hear and watch, out of our submarine
Exile - the sound of bells muted by time –
Jiggling discoloured leaves that we know green.
And we perceive, under the silent chime
Music and words, motionless noise, one more
Exile - the sound of bells muted by time.
The shadows on the walls, whispering door
- a silent movie on a silver screen -
Trailing organdies curtains on the floor.
And we’re awake, oblivious of the green:
It’s black, you see? Because it’s white, so dark
A silent movie on a silver screen.
We sail on by, in our linen ark,
The softest midnight airstream spoils the trees.
It’s black, you see? Because it’s white, so dark,
Against a black-blue dish, stirred by the breeze.
(Terzanelle by SiRiChandra)
A poster created for our English language arts and social studies departments (humanities) to use in their classroom, as well as in the library.
We are passionate about bringing a relaxed approach while creating beautiful, natural and vibrant images.
Stuffed into an airtight container, you've all been there a while. You've acclimatized, holding your breath seems normal...for all.
A united front...
It's not eternal darkness, the lid of this coffin, in which you are confined opens from time to time. Light pours in with fresh air, you can almost imagine the collective relief and the sound of a deep breath in perfect unison.
Sadly, it's not entirely a reprieve...
Another brother disappears; you're never certain if they're being saved or terminated. You wouldn’t be so terrified, if you didn’t know that your day will come.
Simply waiting for the end or saving grace...
Plucked roughly from the crowd. No words were spoken, you didn't scream or fight, nor did you say goodbye. Thrown into the bottom of a porcelain mug, a chance to get your bearings. At least you can breathe in your new home.
Sold. One light filled home...
A paradise in comparison but with no place to move or stretch, it's a jail cell none the less. Your jail cell becomes a torture chamber with boiling water rushing over your body. There's no chance to scream let alone process the pain.
Whoever thought you'd wish to locked away again...
You body numb to the pain but alert enough to feel the water swirling around you. You take short breaths each time your head emerges from the now, fragrant water.
Unceremoniously removed and dropped in a similar manner, you have what you've always wanted. Fresh air, sunlight and views of the outside world.
Content to have seen it, you take your last breath...
Your life was seemingly a meaningless statistic on shopping lists and receipts. You traded your life to give me tea, yet there will be no funeral, not even a burial or plaque.
You rest with you fallen brothers. Soaked to the core lifelessly lining bottom of the bin, a mass grave in every kitchen.
We are passionate about bringing a relaxed approach while creating beautiful, natural and vibrant images.
Maya stood out from the crowd on Northumberland Street. Colourful and stylish :)
I thought I would try positioning her in front of this green background (I think its a Boots the Chemist window) to try and make the shot even more vibrant.
Maya was very comfortable in front of the camera, so it didn't take long before we were both happy with a shot.
Maya is a creative writing student in Newcastle, and particularly loves poetry.
Thank you so much for being my #56 stranger, Maya! I wish you well with the rest of your studies :)
Maya is #56 in my 100 strangers project. Find out more about the project and see pictures taken by other photographers at the 100 Strangers Flickr Group page
1. Hey, Hey, Whaddya know, I'm surprised no one found this except me.
2. Let's see what goodies are in here.
3. Still tasty and not spoiled.
4. I'm sorry for making this mess. I promise I'll clean it up. This is my day, I am one lucky doggy.
(luvhumpbacks' winning entry in the mindreading Sheila-contest - alternative interpretations can be found in the comments section below )
Netherlands, Rotterdam. Flickr Meetup Kop van Zuid April 2007. Local dog Sheila.
We were having a coffee break at a pavement during the meetup. Local dog Sheila knows hows to take care of her own needs. She found a milk carton next to one of the tables. She seems quite smart doesn't she?
Are you familiar with what animals think? Can you read your pet's mind? Did you major in Canine Psychology?
Let's play a game. Fill in the blanks and tell us your take on Sheila's thoughts during each of the 4 frames. Replace the dots with Sheila's thoughts in English.
1. .....
2. .....
3. .....
4. .....
You need a Flickr account to join. Enter your entry as a comment, so all can enjoy.
The following contest is now closed, however you can still leave your take on Sheila's thoughts or write other comments, of course
The person who comes up with the funniest or most remarkable lines will receive a small poster size print (20x30cm / 7.8" x 11.8") of this photo by mail. The closing date for this contest is (now: was) Sunday June 17 2007 11PM GMT.
An independent jury will pick out the winner. The winner will be anounced on this page. I shall contact the winner by Flickr mail. Good luck!
Note that you can see a bigger sized image here or by clicking on "All Sizes"
BREAKING NEWS.....Caught on camera. This is a cell phone picture (captured by the homeowners) of a little "Bigfoot" looking into the door of a home in Mt Juliet, Tennessee. Mt Juliet is located about 17 miles east of downtown Nashville and is known as "The City Between The Lakes", with Old Hickory Lake to the North and Percy Priest Lake to the South. The neighborhood where little "Bigfoot" was captured on film, sits alongside the western half of Old Hickory Lake in Wilson County. According to Tennessee Wildlife Resources Agency, there are numerous species of plant and animal life in and around Old Hickory Lake, but until today there has never been a report of a "Bigfoot" of any size. At least two residents of this small town in Middle Tennessee will tell you that there really is such a thing as Bigfoot. But in this case, the feet of this hairy creature happens to be measured in inches, not feet. The homeowners said "She was trying to disguise herself by wearing a black mask over her eyes, but we knew right away what she was!". The homeowners said that they DID feed her to prevent what could have been an "ugly and very messy break-in". The homeowners further stated that they do realize that it is against the law to harbor or feed any known "Bigfoot" species (no matter how big or small), but until the law is in their shoes, they will do whatever is necessary to prevent angering her. The female occupant of the home, who was visibly shaken said "She is a Mama. And that means that there are more of these creatures in the woods only 15 feet from our back door!!" We did interview several neighbors and were told that they believe that the homeowners of the attempted little "Bigfoot" break in was all staged. One neighbor told us that they think the homeowners have dressed their cat up in a costume and have even tought it to walk on its hind legs. A second neighbor said that she has seen the female homeowner out in the front yard, "at all hours of the day", with a herd of wild White Tailed Deer following right behind her. A third neighbor spoke out saying "Just wait until December. You can come back and do a follow up story on how those 'Dawg Pound' nuts "saw" Santas reindeer on their roof!!". The 'Dawg Pound' that the unidentified neighbor spoke of is the group of NFL fans that cheer on the Cleveland Browns football team in Northeastern Ohio. Apparently the homeowners had moved to the Mt Juliet, Tn area from Lake County, Ohio a number of years ago. We were told by TWRA Officials that their officers are trained to protect the public from any and all animal species, without exception. We will be sure to update you with any new developments on this story. One last note, the homeowners did invite us to spend Christmas Eve with them. Should Santa and his flying reindeer land on their roof, we'll be sure to get the story!
I’m living a persistent déjà vu:
I don’t know if it was or if it is.
It’s weird to know exactly what’s going to
Happen the moment coming after this.
Can déjà vus extend in our past
As in our future? Do I have that once
Or was I there, somewhere, in lighting blast
Backwards the other way, taking a glance?
The shape of time is 8, having a nap
- The infinity character is a knot -
A coiled cobra, a double gaped gap,
Biting its tail and swallowing the lot.
Time is a line, a circle, a dot, a seedful bag
We pick and choose its form, leg walking after leg.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
We are passionate about bringing a relaxed approach while creating beautiful, natural and vibrant images.
We are passionate about bringing a relaxed approach while creating beautiful, natural and vibrant images.
We are passionate about bringing a relaxed approach while creating beautiful, natural and vibrant images.
We sat on the border lines of his personal prison as he used his hands to beat on a single snare drum, creating a rhythm that only his ears could interpet as correct. His throat formed what began as hums into words. Mumbling, he formed lyrics that he'd soon forget and would soon dissipate into just thoughts that couldn't ever be fathomed into any sort of feelings.
I leaned over to touch his bicep, to feel it flex and relax while he played. I told myself I was feeling all the things that he couldn't - that I was feeling for him. Resting my head against his shoulder I counted his breaths and memorized the texture of his shirt. I ran my hand down his forearm and wrist, halting his playing and grabbing his hand. He couldn't feel the texture of my skin or the pressure of my fingers against the top of his hand. But once he saw, he felt the emotion.
He grabbed my hand and the corner of his mouth twitched up. Squeezing my hand just a tiny bit harder he asked, "What's it like?"
"Holding your hand?"
"No. Being able to feel a connection with someone physically and mentally."
I shifted my feet under myself and stroked his hand with my thumb. "It's hard to describe. It's something you need to experience in order to understand."
"Try," he said, as he moved his drum to the ground and sat down in front of me. "Please."
Giving in, I uncrossed my legs and moved my hands to his neck and up in his hair, then pulled them forward and cupped his cheeks. "It's... powerful. Being able to see something or someone is one thing, but feeling it or them is something different entirely. To be able to memorize textures of skin, where every mole, groove, indention and scar is. Feeling like you know someone else's body better than they do... it's a whole other level. And then when you touch and you can almost see the electricity that you feel, it...," I sighed, closing my eyes and dipping my hands under the collar of his shirt to explore the top few inches of his back, "it fills a void."
His hands searched for my wrist, waiting for me to guide it into his hand and then guide his hand to his face. He leaned into my hand. "And kissing?"
I smiled at him. "Better than anything you could ever dream of."
He smiled back at me, sadly. "I wouldn't know what to dream."
"You will."
He brought my hand within his line of sight, carefully trying to place my finger tips on his lips. I didn't help, and he pinned it right on point. He closed his eyes and pecked my fingers. I scooted down off of my chair and knelt in front of him, taking his other hand in mine and pressing my forehead against his. His eyes diverted from mine for a second and watched his hands press to my waist.
I wanted to kiss him, I wanted to tell him how badly I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to allow myself to kiss him, but how selfish it would be. Our first kiss and he wouldn't be able to share the moment, share the feeling. His sight and hearing impeccable, other three senses is where he is falling short. How someone could live without knowing what a hug feels like, what pleasure feels like, even what pain feels like, was something I couldn't even begin to try and relate to. To never taste or smell. Not once getting to enjoy a homemade meal or smell freshly mown grass. It might explain how he ended up here, but yet how his attitude remained so positive was beyond me.
His fingers danced on the concave sides of my chest. Figuring out a beat, he closed his eyes and sang to me in a whisper.
"Gonna sing you an old country song, from the heart
So I can cry your name and call you when I'm sad
When you have gone, run so far from me in the trees so far,
Walkin' down that old country lane, drops of rain
Call upon the ones who call your name
Will I see you again and please just come on back home to me
So I'm not all alone
Gonna sing you an old country song, from the heart
To the beat of this old beat up drum."
His hands gradually grew softer, fading out the song in his own way. And as it did, so too did my memory. These were the things I remember and crave like I certainly did now. I sat there, staring at a sweating cup of iced tea. To blind eyes the concentration on his abandoned glass would seem innocent - harmless even. As if there was no story behind it, as if he just forgot about the cup, as if the reason behind its abandonment was simple.
It was not.
If you're all the way down here, thanks! I know that this is a long description, but it makes the photo make sense. I've been sitting on this "story" for a few weeks and after my lovely friend Amelia read over it and blah blah, I decided to bring it to life!
Quick and simple lettering with spring butterflies and blooms give colour and life to the library. I displayed books on the arts, crafts and creative writing under the display, but should have taken a photo when the display first went up. When I took this photo, almost every book had been signed out.
Professor Meagan Cass is a fiction writer whose work has been published in PANK, The Hayden's Ferry Review, and SmokeLong Quarterly, among other journals. She teaches creative writing at UIS, and her course offerings include Introduction to Creative Writing; Creative Writing, Publishing, and Community; and Writing Linked Story Collections. She serves as the advisor to the UIS student-run literary magazine, The Alchemist.
The Evening News (James Watkins) not hdr
Catalytic confrontations
Calculated crawl,
Embryonic isolations,
Future free-for-all.
Energetic exhortation,
Apoplexied brawl,
Catatonic saturation,
Isometric ball.
Egocentric salutation,
Fatalistic fall,
Megalithic mumbo jumbo,
Paganistic pall.
Pugilistic palpitation,
Excavated sprawl,
Perspiration aggravation,
Aspirated wall.
Ammunition malnutrition,
Superstition stall,
California concentrated,
Captivated thrall.
Bound and ground,
Then taken down,
By the very best-
With one more show
Worth watching,
And then we’re headed west.
Recreation generation,
By the book denomination,
Families filled with hesitation,
RVs racked for roaming.
Picking up the pieces,
Layed down on the land,
With wasted wealth and watersheds,
And regions raped by man.
Calibration castigations,
Asymmetric aberrations,
Guided tours with revelations,
Ratted out and ruined.
Catastrophic congregations,
Commutated castings,
Calvinistic computations,
Debonair and prancing.
Altruistic aspirations,
Stoned, bemoaned abbreviations,
Terrified with trepidations,
Gnomes long gone and gassed!
Honed and cloned then overthrown,
Granted one last wish-
Celebrated, then negated-
Dangling near the dish!
Partisan unprinciples,
In petrifying packs-
With news and views
And loop-de-loos,
And stab-‘em-in-the-backs.
Ready for the ruckus,
Sitting at the shrine,
Thought they really
Had the goods,
Now listen to the whine.
Thought they had it marketed,
Cornered and refined,
Around the town
The teaching wound,
Until they lost their mind.
Settling to the bottom,
They slid to lower ground,
Between the lines and valentines,
Some lost their Royal Crowns.
Terroristic tinkering,
Tumbling and tinkling,
Fundamental farkles,
Helpful and home grown.
Patriotic particles,
Hidden in the articles,
Compact and post partial,
Buried to the bone.
Vacuumed packed
And gunny-sacked,
Pre-segmented squalls,
Appalachian apparitions,
Headed to the malls.
Fevered and fantastic men,
Marching to the moon,
With masticating matriarchs,
In subcutaneous swoon.
Breasts blown up beautiful,
Complicated castings,
Fallen faces on the floor,
Mesmerized for masking.
Sacrificial sublimations,
Surrogates sublime,
Tetrahedral, analgesic,
Sentimental crimes.
Pawing, pungent prisoners,
Soothing, sexy swine-
Sows and cows and sinning sons,
Tasting tempting wines.
Navigation nuances,
Nuptials by Nair,
Feudalistic fragrances,
Held up with heavy hair.
Practical imbalances,
Factory unrepairs,
New wave cold and chemical friends,
Facts blown up with air.
Salivating swindlers,
Solo Simon says,
High-falutin prostitution,
Fixed up with the Feds.
Sports and courts and teasing torts,
Women going wild-
Dow Jones Average hemorrhage,
Help the homeless child.
Down the daunting highway,
Less than overnight,
Covering ground without a sound,
Filtered by first light.
Lazy lit up lethargy,
Loosed by lying lips,
Bought the farm in triplicate,
Then sailed a sinking ship.
Galvanizing garrisons,
Gathering at the line,
Pushed ahead though nearly dead,
They won it one more time.
Tested in the tumult,
On solid ground they stand,
Groping with the changer,
Positioned close at hand.
Nightly, brightly flickering,
Turn the clicker off-
Before you go,
Don’t miss the show,
An evening totally lost!
James Watkins (03-06)
The College of Liberal Arts at Temple University proudly announces a handful of newly renovated “smart” classrooms for the Fall 2012 semester. These rooms, in addition to being refurbished with fresh carpeting, lighting, blinds, and oversized white boards, have been upgraded with a number of technological advances. Students and faculty assigned to the new classrooms will notice new podiums, projectors, screens and control systems.
www.cla.temple.edu/2012/09/newly-renovated-smart-classroo...
Stirring old memories with a barge-pole
- The well is deep, it spans beyond decades -
Looking inside the source thru the pinhole
Of gazing down, a bait with hooks and blades.
The blancmange bait is crumbling on the spume
Making something emerge: a face, a kiss,
Blue eyes exploding in ecstasy, abloom
Of a love once alive. I follow this
Ripple that breaks the surface. I see more
And more eyes looking out, and some are shut.
The nearest are the bluest. On their seashore
I left the sweetest blancmange as a glut.
Alice, while looking down, fell in a different land:
I stir old memories and write dead names in sand.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
I’m sick and tired to cope with cold black rage
Only because I’m here. I do not want
To be the pen, the one who writes the page
Of your sad story: if you can, then don’t.
I look at you with cold eyes, through the lashes
As if through a spy hole; but in my chest
A turmoil of still burning red hot ashes
Is running and destroying all the rest.
Trying to look composed and unconcerned
I feel sometimes a teardrop running down
My cheeks: I know that they are burning
Not for my shame. It’s yours, it’s what you own.
Today, if I could fly, I’ll take the longest route
Keeping my wings on air, avoiding storm and draught.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
The Creative Writing Program at ASU presents author Jess Row in a reading from his work followed by a Q&A and book signing.
Row is the author of White Flights: Race, Fiction, and the American Imagination, as well as the novel Your Face in Mine and the story collections The Train to Lo Wu and Nobody Ever Gets Lost. White Flights is his first book of nonfiction. One of Granta’s Best of Young American Novelists of 2007, he lives in New York and teaches at the College of New Jersey.
Book Summary
White Flights is a meditation on whiteness in American fiction and culture from the end of the civil rights movement to the present. At the heart of the book, Jess Row ties “white flight”—the movement of white Americans into segregated communities, whether in suburbs or newly gentrified downtowns—to white writers setting their stories in isolated or emotionally insulated landscapes, from the mountains of Idaho in Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping to the claustrophobic households in Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections. Row uses brilliant close readings of work from well-known writers such as Don DeLillo, Annie Dillard, Richard Ford, and David Foster Wallace to examine the ways these and other writers have sought imaginative space for themselves at the expense of engaging with race.
White Flights aims to move fiction to a more inclusive place, and Row looks beyond criticism to consider writing as a reparative act. What would it mean, he asks, if writers used fiction “to approach each other again”? Row turns to the work of James Baldwin, Dorothy Allison, and James Alan McPherson to discuss interracial love in fiction, while also examining his own family heritage as a way to interrogate his position. A moving and provocative book that includes music, film, and literature in its arguments, White Flights is an essential work of cultural and literary criticism.
PRAISE
“Row has produced a thoughtful and timely meditation that serves as a call to white writers.”—Pop Matters
“This intelligent collection is often deeply engaged in realms of philosophy and literary theory. . . . There is something for every reader . . . in the message that fiction not only reflects but acts upon real life, and that each of us is obliged to act for justice, in reading and writing as in life.”—Shelf Awareness
“With these superb essays, Jess Row reveals himself to be an insightful critic of both literature and the American condition.”—Viet Thanh Nguyen
“Jess Row performs a much-needed analysis. . . . The landscape of the imagination, like the country itself, he argues with rich insight and brio, is neither equal nor free.”—John Keene
Written on water, or imprinted in ice
The words that passed the sills of our lips,
‘Cause our talking was pointless, and had its price:
The jewellery robbed by the pirate’s ships.
And eyes that met, and hands longing to touch
The other’s hands, the smiles we spilled around…
We used ourselves in a frustrated crutch
We did not care about the other’s wound.
It was a game we did not play by rules
Since we forgot them and didn’t want to know
And once more what we lost were sparkling jewels
The silver bangles that we did not show.
Water and snow enshroud the gems we found and lost
Maybe someone will find them, at the melting of the frost.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
“Violet,” I call over to her. Her name is Violet. Crazy Violet, they called her in school. No one calls her that anymore. Not since the fire. It was in all the papers. I don’t read papers.
Adam’s walking ahead but turns when he hears her name. He walks back to where I’ve stopped. His hands are in the pockets of his tattered black bomber jacket, a smoke dangles from chapped lips.
“What’s she up to now?” he asks. “Not the damn corners again.”
“It’s not the corners, man,” I tell him, not for the first time. “It’s the break in the symmetry of the lines on the wall, caused by that corner. She can’t help herself.”
Adam looks up and down the street. Traffic inches along Yonge like thick snot from a congested nostril, slow and painful. Exhaust pipes exhale billowy blue clouds of shit into the atmosphere. It’s cold out and the sky is the colour of the sidewalk under our feet. Everything feels flat. Around us, shoppers and street people dance in and out of each other’s way, all moving in different directions. Adam takes a big drag from his smoke.
“So now what? It’s fucking freezing out here.”
“We wait. You can’t talk to her when she gets like this. Just give her a minute.”
“Fuck man, why are you putting up with this shit from a chick? She’s like a fucking anchor around your neck and she’s gonna pull us all down with her.” Adam’s agitated. He doesn’t like the cold. I don’t blame him, but we’re not leaving her.
“You go, man,” I tell him. “You know where Manny lives. Just ring the buzzer and he’ll buzz you up.”
“Manny doesn’t like me. He’s too paranoid about the cops and shit. He ain’t gonna let me up without you.”
“Then I guess you’re waiting with me.” I cut him a winning grin like I’ve just farted.
Adam shakes his head, clearly annoyed at what he thinks is a predicament. He has the patience of a five year old on Christmas morning.
“I’m hitting Timmy’s for a coffee,” he says, then turns and starts walking down Yonge Street again. I yell for him to grab me one and he responds with a middle finger without looking back. But I know he’ll grab one for me. He’s annoyed but he ain’t an asshole. Plus, if he wants to get high at Manny’s, he’d better look after me.
“Hey,” I yell a second time, “grab Violet something… an orange cruller.” He keeps walking as if he didn’t hear but I know he did and I know he’ll bring the cruller.
I walk over the Violet, making sure not to get too close to her, sorta the way you’d approach an injured bird.
“Wanna smoke?” I offer. She says nothing. I put the pack away and just stand there. I notice a few shoppers glancing over to us as they enter the mall doors.
Violet’s not my girlfriend, I should point out. It sorta seems like it sometimes, but she’s really more like a kid sister. Nuttier than the mad hatter with a head injury, mind you. Not always, though; and I suppose that’s why we’ve stuck together for so long. When she’s lucid and on her day, she’s great. She has this droll sense of humour that always breaks me up. She’s got a kind heart, too. Very generous. If she wasn’t such a crazy crackhead, she’d make a pretty solid girlfriend for some lucky guy. Those days are long over for her, though.
I jam my hands into the pockets of my corduroys and do my best two-step to keep warm. I can see my breath in the air. The light of day is fading fast, as night approaches. In the distance a siren lights up, then dies back down. Not a cop, an ambulance. When you’ve been on the streets as long as we have, you can tell the difference with just a short squawk.
Violet finally turns her head to face me. Her body remains rigid in the corner. It’s sorta creepy how she does that. Her eyes spark. She blinks a couple of time.
“Where’s Adam?” she asks, one foot in the here and now, the other still off in la-la land.
“Gone to get you a cruller,” I say. “He’ll be back in a minute.”
“Oh.” She doesn’t say anything for a minute or so. We both stand there looking at each other.
“I’m sorry, Pete,” she finally says. “Just give me a moment longer, kay?”
“Sure, hon, take as long as ya need.” We stand some more. It’s getting colder. I notice she’s got no socks on, for chrissake. Foot traffic into the mall has lessened. It’s getting to closing time, I suppose.
Finally Violet comes over to me and wraps her arms around my neck. I pull her close and pat her back. I can feel the energy drain from her as we stand there. She starts to cry. I just hold her. That’s what I’m supposed to do. That’s what she needs, what she counts on.
We part and she takes my hand. In a small voice she tells me she loves me. I tell her I know, and that I love her back. She wipes away the tears from her pink cheeks and gives me a half smile.
“You know, I remember when I was a kid. At the end of our street there was this big white house with green shutters on the sides of the windows. They had a white picket fence and a dog. I remember thinking one day I’d have all that. A nice guy, kids, a life… you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” I reply. This isn’t the first time she’s told me this. “Sometimes stuff just doesn’t work out the way you hope. You gotta play the cards you were dealt, right?”
She nods and looks down at her feet. I see the tears start up again in her eyes. She sniffs and wipes her leaking nose. “Can we go somewhere warm? I’m freezing.”
We start walking down Yonge Street. Coming towards us – a cardboard tray with two coffees and a small paper bag that most certainly contains an orange cruller in hand – is Adam, wearing a shit-eating grin. With his free hand he flashes a peace sign. It’s going to be a good night after all.
________________
Check out my blog for daily photos: www.LazyPhotographer.ca
The Lazy Photographer - Book 1, now available: www.blurb.com/books/2549571
If you're interested, I've uploaded three slide shows of my street photography, with music. Check it out:
Slideshow #1: youtu.be/5T06_DQhXwA
Slideshow #2: youtu.be/VDWFR9FJgNI
Slideshow #3: youtu.be/w5YV3xYaeS8
Sydney Bieber reads during the Uncanny Senior Symposium for Literature Majors was held in the Old Main Lincoln Room on Thursday, Feb. 27, 2020.
The Creative Writing Program at ASU presents author Jess Row in a reading from his work followed by a Q&A and book signing.
Row is the author of White Flights: Race, Fiction, and the American Imagination, as well as the novel Your Face in Mine and the story collections The Train to Lo Wu and Nobody Ever Gets Lost. White Flights is his first book of nonfiction. One of Granta’s Best of Young American Novelists of 2007, he lives in New York and teaches at the College of New Jersey.
Book Summary
White Flights is a meditation on whiteness in American fiction and culture from the end of the civil rights movement to the present. At the heart of the book, Jess Row ties “white flight”—the movement of white Americans into segregated communities, whether in suburbs or newly gentrified downtowns—to white writers setting their stories in isolated or emotionally insulated landscapes, from the mountains of Idaho in Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping to the claustrophobic households in Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections. Row uses brilliant close readings of work from well-known writers such as Don DeLillo, Annie Dillard, Richard Ford, and David Foster Wallace to examine the ways these and other writers have sought imaginative space for themselves at the expense of engaging with race.
White Flights aims to move fiction to a more inclusive place, and Row looks beyond criticism to consider writing as a reparative act. What would it mean, he asks, if writers used fiction “to approach each other again”? Row turns to the work of James Baldwin, Dorothy Allison, and James Alan McPherson to discuss interracial love in fiction, while also examining his own family heritage as a way to interrogate his position. A moving and provocative book that includes music, film, and literature in its arguments, White Flights is an essential work of cultural and literary criticism.
PRAISE
“Row has produced a thoughtful and timely meditation that serves as a call to white writers.”—Pop Matters
“This intelligent collection is often deeply engaged in realms of philosophy and literary theory. . . . There is something for every reader . . . in the message that fiction not only reflects but acts upon real life, and that each of us is obliged to act for justice, in reading and writing as in life.”—Shelf Awareness
“With these superb essays, Jess Row reveals himself to be an insightful critic of both literature and the American condition.”—Viet Thanh Nguyen
“Jess Row performs a much-needed analysis. . . . The landscape of the imagination, like the country itself, he argues with rich insight and brio, is neither equal nor free.”—John Keene
I shall plant
a tree
in green
for you
Hold my hand
a wee
wee bit
marvel at the blue
Sky’s like sand
you see
it bleeds
stars old and new
Love is not blinding, it just turns you around
So fast, that you can’t see the loved features.
You say, “This face, this beauty is renowned
Like the most stunning among human creatures”.
You spin, and you are twirled in a dance
Your eyes are fixed into the other’s eyes.
If you let go, for sure you’ll lose balance
Falling awkwardly as the laugh arises.
Around you, the entire world is in a blur
You feel a dizzy emotion quite upsetting.
Even your body is losing its contour
Because you’re giving more than you are getting.
It’s better to keep spinning, avoiding closer glances.
Another turn: bedazzled, you have no other chances.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
dedicated to Zenwithin, one-sided answer to his question
Grandma never made it to the Rock of Gold.
While we listened to her (saucered eyes, capitalOed mouths, hands clasped to our siblings’ hands) of course we dreamed to be there. But Grandma told us “never to not even dream of it”.
The river was dangerous only during the rainy season. More a brook than a river, through the endless summer days it was our swimming pool. We could sit in the sallow water, freezing our entrails, and imagining ourselves moored on a desert island. We did not care about Grandma’s stories as we climbed the mossy rocks, looking at the grey crayfishes running away from our wrinkled toes. We did not know why, but by the river we preferred to play together, very near to each other, almost touching. We walked home at night, one by one, drenched to our twiggy bones, our hair smelling of a swamp. And again we asked Grandma to tell us about the Rock.
It stood high by the river, and it was apparent only a few moments before sunset. Its walls were steep and shiny, painted with a slippery gold glaze that disappeared at nightfall, inch by inch, beginning at the feet of the rock and ending at its very top after sunset. Grandma said that it was the time for the fairies to begin dancing. They did not like to be seen by humans, therefore she never tried to look at the Rock at night. When she was a little girl, her now respectable waist leaner than ours, her best friend hid by the rocks during a summer evening, and was never seen back at the village.
Grandma told us to look carefully for little things the fairies left behind for us children to play with: a ribbon, a slipper, sometimes a jewel. I found a pearl once, the size of my little finger nail, and brought it home at night. Mama made me throw it in the water barrel by the backdoor. She told me never to pick up anything: it was a dirty habit and the thing could be cursed. I looked inside the barrel the day after and my pearl has disappeared. I never asked Mama about it.
During autumn and winter, in dry cold days we went to the woods to pick up twigs for the fire: even the smallest children had their small wicker baskets and helped the best they could.
In winter I preferred to walk by the river looking for the wood brought down by the stream. I did not realize I was so far from the village that day, and so near to the rocks, almost by the swimming pool of our summer plays.
She was sitting on one of the highest rocks by the water, her back to me. I could not see her face, only her green hair almost to her waist. She was looking at herself in the water, and around her shoulder she wore a wolf fur to keep her warm. Her left arm was bent under her hair, the hand at the nape of her neck to hold it away from her face, like a lady admiring herself in a mirror.
In a moment I could not breath anymore. I run away, the dry bushes flogging my bare knees and leaving dark marks on my tender skin. I thought I was falling. I was blind, and my feet touched water and ice a couple of times. Hearing the patter of the gravel on the road to the village was a blessing. My basket was nowhere to be seen. I must have left it by the water, and I realized it only when I was safely at home, my heart jumping inside my ribcage and in my throat. I never told Grandma of the fairy I saw just under the Rock of Gold. I would not hear her telling me about the curses and how unlucky it was to see a fairy combing her hair by the river.
In a few weeks it was spring again, and we children went to play by the river for the first time that year. I was sure I would never see the fairy yet again, but at the same time in a way I wanted to make myself sure I saw her. My best friend clasped my hand and tried to make me run to the rocks. I stopped and tried to make up my mind: was I ready for anything?
My friend smiled and gently pulled me to the water. She was leaning on her right side and her left foot slipped and nearly splashed into the icy water. I steadied her, pulling her towards me, and doing so I saw a turf of dried grass by her heel, almost hidden by a stone.
I looked over her shoulders and I saw the rocks. No one was sitting on it. There was a log near the biggest one, and some debris in the small pond over it, next to a discarded basket.
We moved towards home. I turned once, and even if it was not the right time of the day, I saw the Rock of Gold.
(Short story by SiRiChandra, January 2012)
Tonight I’m fairly sure the moon is cheese
And whales are fishes with a crooked tail.
You talk, but what you say is hollow breeze
And what I write I’ll have to read in Braille.
Confused, and sad, and bad, and tired, and strange
The Chinese moon is sailing up the hill
Not in a straight line, tonight, for a change:
Hopping and bopping, swallowing a pill.
The whale is loudly humming a silent tune
Riding around the moon, asking for more.
Two little stars are throwing a balloon
Fighting for scoring, running at the door.
A giant whale is hiding the Seas and moony Valleys.
The drunken moon is swaying, tripping dark bumpy alleys.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
The Creative Writing Program at ASU presents author Jess Row in a reading from his work followed by a Q&A and book signing.
Row is the author of White Flights: Race, Fiction, and the American Imagination, as well as the novel Your Face in Mine and the story collections The Train to Lo Wu and Nobody Ever Gets Lost. White Flights is his first book of nonfiction. One of Granta’s Best of Young American Novelists of 2007, he lives in New York and teaches at the College of New Jersey.
Book Summary
White Flights is a meditation on whiteness in American fiction and culture from the end of the civil rights movement to the present. At the heart of the book, Jess Row ties “white flight”—the movement of white Americans into segregated communities, whether in suburbs or newly gentrified downtowns—to white writers setting their stories in isolated or emotionally insulated landscapes, from the mountains of Idaho in Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping to the claustrophobic households in Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections. Row uses brilliant close readings of work from well-known writers such as Don DeLillo, Annie Dillard, Richard Ford, and David Foster Wallace to examine the ways these and other writers have sought imaginative space for themselves at the expense of engaging with race.
White Flights aims to move fiction to a more inclusive place, and Row looks beyond criticism to consider writing as a reparative act. What would it mean, he asks, if writers used fiction “to approach each other again”? Row turns to the work of James Baldwin, Dorothy Allison, and James Alan McPherson to discuss interracial love in fiction, while also examining his own family heritage as a way to interrogate his position. A moving and provocative book that includes music, film, and literature in its arguments, White Flights is an essential work of cultural and literary criticism.
PRAISE
“Row has produced a thoughtful and timely meditation that serves as a call to white writers.”—Pop Matters
“This intelligent collection is often deeply engaged in realms of philosophy and literary theory. . . . There is something for every reader . . . in the message that fiction not only reflects but acts upon real life, and that each of us is obliged to act for justice, in reading and writing as in life.”—Shelf Awareness
“With these superb essays, Jess Row reveals himself to be an insightful critic of both literature and the American condition.”—Viet Thanh Nguyen
“Jess Row performs a much-needed analysis. . . . The landscape of the imagination, like the country itself, he argues with rich insight and brio, is neither equal nor free.”—John Keene