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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...
punish me
lash me with fiercest words
those only can enter my scars
I am a lachrymiform poem
I wander where the letters are
I hang my soul to the trees of metaphores
I need to dwell in this land of absence
Where my self is severed from my shapeshifting body
dead ego crawling creeping behind me
I have special scissors to cut the sighs
in strange cloud shapes
I am so cruel because I do all I can so they can't rain
and I run in the wood denying all pain
dancing with black ribbons in a dirty dress
my cold and aching feet keep all the memory
under the dark blue arches of my feet
I walked on all kind of tenderness till it choke or beg for me to let it go
the shadows behind the old tree murmurs how much she loves feeding me with these waves
of spiders and bitter splatters of thoughts who can stain your spirit for ages
I hate to have to listen to this song
alter sister alter alter these pages of emptiness
fill it feel it
make origami of these void of words
paper hurts
velum aches
alter sister
alter these heavens without a name
fill me feel me feed me need me
again
we'll keep on talking to the ceiling
and the mirrors will show us another story of thorns
that still have to be written(...)
As the squeal of the digital clock began its familiar routine of waking the dead, Jillian’s eyes were already open and staring at the ceiling. Her mind creating faces in the patterns of flaking paint which covered most of the overhead walls of her old apartment in Georgetown DC. Dark, long shadows created by the dim, early morning glow through her window, brought the usually ugly edges of old paint to life in faces of old men, small children, and even a small dog. Her imagination was alive in an attempt to deal with what lay ahead of her that day.
Without moving her stare from these watchful faces, her hand emerged from the warmth of the bed to touch the clock and silence its screams for another ten minutes. Just a few short months ago, this action would be repeated again and again, each time getting her ten more minutes of precious sleep after a long night of working or studying. Although then, the alarm clock’s technological crowing at first light would wake her from a deep sleep. Not this day however. Deep sleep was something the ceiling faces kept from her that night.
Her hand once again inside the comfort of her queen sized bed, Jillian pulled the down-filled covers up close to her face, as if to hide her from the peering eyes of the faces she saw in that flaking paint her gaze remain fixed on. With a heavy breath, she closed her eyes and buried the rest of her head with the warmth and familiar comfort of bed coverings.
“I can do this.” She says out loud from under the blankets, the only response to her statement would not be heard for nine more minutes; from the alarm clock, waiting patiently to repeat its scream again.
As she lay there, Jillian recalled the past six years: the work, the studying, the long hours. Today was a day she had dreamt about since starting college, but now that it was here, she lay buried in the protection of her cotton armor, terrified.
With the distraction of the paint faces gone, she remembered her first day in the apartment. Her father carrying boxes from the small moving truck to the door had said, “There are bars on the window Jillian. It looks like a prison.”
Jillian laughed out loud at herself recalling the response she gave her father’s comment: “No more so than living at home with you.” That had gotten a hearty ‘grunt’ from her father.
Despite his apprehension at letting her go, he supported her. He was there for her. That is, until his heart attack her junior year that took his life. Continuing with school was difficult for Jillian after that, but she did it. Using his memory to carry her, she pressed on, but there were times she wasn’t sure she could do it. Much like her thoughts this fall morning. But, his words of encouragement echoed through her consciousness to this day: “Believe in yourself Jillian, as I believe in you, and you can do anything. Whatever your dreams or desires are, I am there with you. For you.” She clung to those thoughts as she clawed for the motivation to start this day.
A tear ran from her eye as Jillian rolled over in bed, pulling the covers off her face to look at the window in her bedroom. The wood slats closed tight, but the light creating a glow around the edges. “God I hate those blinds.”, she said randomly, again, to no one but the waiting clock.
“I miss you dad. I know I can do this, but I’m scared.”
The glowing red numbers on her bedroom companion clicked up another number in their countdown to a repeated wake-up scream.
Her motivation beginning to return, Jillian thought about the process that led to this day. The anticipation, the preparation, the long hours in the library or in her apartment. She was the one selected, she IS special.
“But am I?”, she thought. “Why me?”
“Believe in yourself Jillian.” The words of her father hung in the air around her room.
Rolling over to her back again, Jillian looks for the faces that her imagination had created on the ceiling. The eyes were gone. The faces were gone. Their creepy stares replaced by what they were to begin with: just old paint on the ceiling of an old apartment.
“I’m ready.” She says out loud. “I can so do this.”
Almost with a start, Jillian throws back the covers from her bed and swings her legs out from under the warmth of her comforter. Her feet pause for just a moment before searching for the hard floor. “Yes, it’s time to start my life.” She whispers to herself.
Just as her feet touch the cold floor, her only companion in the room again springs to life, releasing the monotone screech of a modern-day rooster. Standing up, she reaches out to the clock and switches it off, and starts her day and her new life.
————————————————————
“What Lies Beyond?” is a photographic series coupled with fictional short stories around the image captured. This is a project I’ve been working on for over a year now, and am finally bringing to fruition in this first story. The series will focus on 20 different doors or windows, and how I envision the stories they hold to be told to us.
Please tell me what you think, and be looking for the next installment of this ongoing series to eventually culminate into a coffee table book. I hope you enjoy it.
Mark Hopkins
_______________________________________________
© 2012 Mark Hopkins Photography - All Rights Reserved
All images are registered with the US Copyright Office
I dreamt of you only one time, you know.
It was the dream of dreams, d’you want to hear?
Your face was painted with a stellar glow
And silver moons and stars studded your ear.
And when I kissed you it was scarlet deep:
A deep wild kiss. And after that, your lips
Detached from mine, in an impulsive leap.
And then your voice, releasing from the grip.
“I am the one supposed to do the kissing”.
I don’t remember how the dream went on
In time and space my memories are missing
The dream of dreams, a dream well foregone.
The ancient told us that dreams are what we are
And in the mirror – look – on my lips there’s a star.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
Even though their academic interests vary from biological sciences, creative writing and theatre, (l-r) Austin Wong, Andrea Krajisnik, Aly Owen, Josh Gonzalez and Sarah Suits developed new friendships while living in residential housing. They're shown walking beside the Arts and Humanities Residential College at Parkside (left) and Parkside Apartments (background). Photo by: Philip Channing
We had a quarrel: she was watching me
With angry eyes, and furiously I kept
My mouth forcefully closed. No way to agree,
No way for an excuse to be accepted.
We stopped by a bar: the night was high
And all was dark; no persons were around.
We sat on stools, out of the bar, in sight
Of a bleak street, right at the skirts of town.
I peeped inside the bar, through soiled glass:
And by the counter I saw Carlos Santana.
He was there with a mate, maybe the bass
Player: frozen still shot, “Amerikana”.
I pointed him to my friend, as if to say: “You see?”
She snapped back, black with anger: “You know I disagree!”
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
We are passionate about bringing a relaxed approach while creating beautiful, natural and vibrant images.
Lab technician Sandra Rodriguez Cruz analyzes microorganisms growing on a specialized growth medium and checks for characteristic colony phenotypes. Photo by: Philip Channing
I wrote this non-rhyming poem after a discussion with my sister. We were talking about so many who miss what's going on around them while they are so focused on their own looks, talents, gifts, etc. I wish we could all do better at looking Beyond the Mirror.
You can watch the scrolling words with music in the background on my YouTube channel at youtu.be/BfE-7URL1Nc
While I copyright my writing, I am very free with it just like my images, but I don't automatically list my words with a Creative Commons license like my photos because I want to hear from people who want to use them. Just send me a Flickr mail to let me know you would like to use my lyrics or poetry for your personal project, gift, or card.
Chatting about what love is, late at night:
You said that love is made of dedication,
Togetherness and confidence. It might
Bring a new source of burning inspiration.
I was in love but twice, and love is hard.
Always a one-way street, on a fast car;
You have no brakes on, often you are off guard:
Looking in a short distance, you see afar.
And it is madness too, waking at dawn
To watch the sunrise, just because you hope
That who you love would see the same; alone
Injecting in your veins the old love dope.
When I think love, I think a silver flytrap plant
Its leaves sweet scented, fetching me - an ant, another ant.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
Even though their academic interests vary from biological sciences, creative writing and theatre, (l-r) Austin Wong, Andrea Krajisnik, Aly Owen, Josh Gonzalez and Sarah Suits developed new friendships while living in residential housing. They're shown walking beside the Arts and Humanities Residential College at Parkside (left) and Parkside Apartments (background). Photo by: Philip Channing.
We are passionate about bringing a relaxed approach while creating beautiful, natural and vibrant images.
I never liked your hands. Your face is good.
You’re proud to look a bit like Kurt Cobain.
You knew it well: you made it understood.
You used the light to enhance your cheekbones’ plain.
I had to know that you were to be trustless
Feeling your hands, their coldness and their touch
On mine: how could I’ve been so mindless?
I was so sure you would not hurt me much.
I had to trust my hands; they knew the ending.
They saw the hardest bones inside the frame,
Learning the short clean nails, and comprehending
The man within the mask, the hidden shame.
And your best feature? Eyes, the mirror of the soul
A glazed surface, blue: eyes of a porcelain doll.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
I took a creative writing class in college not realizing how it would really challenge me. I was used to the writing praises of teachers ever since elementary school. I was also used to editors’ article critiques in journalism classes and newspaper internships. I thought I had talent and thick skin.
Writing news and feature articles is much different from penning personal poems, short stories, and plays. Everything I wrote in that creative writing class was passed around for all my classmates to edit and critique along with the professor.
I’ve learned to trust my instincts and take creative chances. I’ve learned not to take things too personally. I’ve learned to use the critiques that can help me and to let the others go.
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...
The automatic writing project started out as an activity among friends and locals. I would write a line someone else would write a line and so on... Then people would overhear us and ask if they could participate and write something too (which surprised me) of course I said "yes!" At that point I realized that lots of people have something to say. I started asking strangers to add entries, then I graduated to offering people $1.00 to participate, some people do not accept the dollar and some pay me a $1.00 (paying it forward). It's becoming quite a lovely, surprising and compelling project. People from many walks of life are participating: homeless, a news reporter, academics, students, doctors, drug addicts, lawyers, tourists etc... People have written things in my journal that they'd never say out loud, not to anyone. Some of it's so sad, some intriguing, hilarious and so on... At the end of the day, every one of these people understand that their entries are being uploaded to the internet and are comforted in knowing that they will be heard. I have no idea where this is going, but it's going just fine! FYI: English is not everyone's first language here. I will be illustrating the book/journal after the text is done. I hope that everyone who reads these entries learns something about people, mostly that we never know what someone else is going through.
Feel free to stop by my facebook page if you like: www.facebook.com/collageandautomaticwriting/
theatre / performance art / poetry / installation / readings / documentary / creative writing / music
Πολυχώρος Κέντρο Ελέγχου Τηλεοράσεων / TV Control Center
Κύπρου 91Α & Σικίνου 35Α, 11361, Κυψέλη, Αθήνα / 91Α Kyprou & 35Α Sikinou, 11361, Athens
Τ: (00 30) 213 00 40 496 || Mobile: (00 30) 69.45.34.84.45
Email: info@polychorosket.gr
Site: polychorosket.gr/
Facebook: www.facebook.com/kentron.el
Twitter: twitter.com/TVControlCenter
Flickr: www.flickr.com/photos/79921428@N03
YouTube: www.youtube.com/channel/UC0rOD1_SgjuNrkNmx59_sMg/videos
TRANSCRIPT
"You know, I always thought 'the Ultimate Answer to the Ultimate Question, of Life, the Universe, and Everything,' being equal to '42' was a bit of a copout on Douglas Adams' part. Like, don't you think a smart guy like him would be able to come up with something a little more profound? Oh, I knew it was a joke, but I just didn't really get it. I guess he was pretty well on the right track, if you're able to read between the lines. See, we start with an advanced civilization questioning the very root meaning of existence, looking for an answer that would satisfy the age-old enquiry, 'Why are we here?' And they were smart enough to build a computer that could calculate that answer for them. For all the good it did, they might as well have spent those resources calculating pi = 3.14... to the gajillionth decimal place, when any idiot knows that that's nothing but a circle. Maybe life is a circle, maybe it's a spiral, maybe it's a whole bunch of things, but the point is this: when you're done explaining it to yourself, you can move past the question and just live it like you would have, had the question never occurred to you in the first place. I know that's unfair and not really what I mean, but seriously, maybe the Question actually is the Answer in a different form, like 'What is it? It is what it is.' So life is its own Question and its own Answer, and maybe the point is to just explore everything it has to offer and to one day maybe stop pretending we don't know what this is all about. Where we came from and where we're going... it's the same thing. And if that's so, then everything really is OK and there's nothing in this universe to be afraid of. All those things we think are really scary and bad, what are they but stuff we dreamed up to tell ourselves that it's not what it really was all along, the perfect expression of an eternally loving God?"
Creative Writing Conference 2015 was held at the Conference Center and Elston Inn located on Sweet Briar College's campus. Photo by Meridith De Avila Khan. Copyright Sweet Briar College.
They're here! They're here!
Somehow, my creative writing students and I managed to finish this collection of their short horror stories before the end of the school year. I am so excited with how they turned out, and I can't wait to hand them out today and tomorrow!!!!!
(Want to buy a copy? You'll have to PM me for details...)
Poetry session @Chapel Arts Centre for Creative Writing students (Ross Turner, Molly Burnell). Model release forms signed.
Photography - Harris Stovell.
I am afraid of masks, I’ve always been,
And as a child Carnival was a nightmare.
The blank still faces, their abnormal sheen
Was just enough to throw me in despair.
There is a why: my mother rested lying
On her white bed, her face motionless white.
I asked softly: “Mama, are you crying?”
She told me back: “Go away, I’m dead, be quiet”.
I was a little girl, and this reply
Had no solution. I knew well back then:
When you don’t talk and breathe, that’s when you die.
But mama… mama… will she speak again?
She was back with her mask, her rosy coloured shield.
I’ve seen, on her real face, her sorrow unconcealed.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
Celeste Chong-Cerrillo, instructional laboratory manager for the Department of Biological Sciences, and lab technician Sandra Rodriguez Cruz analyze microorganisms growing on a specialized growth medium and check for characteristic colony phenotypes. Photo by: Philip Channing
This is a poem I wrote at school when I was 9 or 10 years old. We were given a title, and had to write a poem based on it. I remember the teacher liking it, and the headmistress. Several years later, the headmistress retired. My dad went to her retirement party, as he was on the board of governors at the school. She gave him this to bring home. Apparently she had liked it so much that she had framed it, and kept it in her office. I think I typed this out on the BBC computer we had at school, and it was printed on a dot matrix printer. I like it, although I cringe at my use of the word "surrealism"...must have seemed quite pretentious for a 9 or 10 year old to use a word like that, and I vaguely remember only using it as I had just learned the word and thought it would be impressive to use.
theatre / performance art / poetry / installation / readings / documentary / creative writing / music
Πολυχώρος Κέντρο Ελέγχου Τηλεοράσεων / TV Control Center
Κύπρου 91Α & Σικίνου 35Α, 11361, Κυψέλη, Αθήνα / 91Α Kyprou & 35Α Sikinou, 11361, Athens
Τ: (00 30) 213 00 40 496 || Mobile: (00 30) 69.45.34.84.45
Email: info@polychorosket.gr
Site: polychorosket.gr/
Facebook: www.facebook.com/kentron.el
Twitter: twitter.com/TVControlCenter
Flickr: www.flickr.com/photos/79921428@N03
YouTube: www.youtube.com/channel/UC0rOD1_SgjuNrkNmx59_sMg/videos
I am a child no more, my face is lined,
And streaks of silver in my hair appear.
Sometimes I look so young I cannot find
My age into my story and my years.
When I wake up I don’t know who I am
My mirror shows a face I do not see.
I hide behind an easy theorem:
That is - as I would mean - I disagree.
The footpath after rain reflects a girl
That was me, jumping puddles, her shoes sogged.
I stop and watch: the surface bears a pearl
That’s a bubble of air, spit by a frog.
But if my lips would touch the amphibian’s shiny skin,
Will a jade veil conceal me, and would I turn to green?
(Sonnet bySiRiChandra)
I wonder if someone will recognize one of the lines, inspired by a song.
A very famous one.