with a handful of pills

woes of ice and fire

Tue, 28 Aug 2012 19:56:45 GMT

couple days ago, i finally finished a dance with dragons the fifth and most current novel in george r r martin's a song of ice and fire series. PLZ DON'T FKN TELL ME JON IS DEAD GRRM OR I WILL KILL YOU YOU WRINKLY GEEKY OLD MAN. spoiler just there. anyway i can totally see why adwd was far more fulfilling compared to a feast for crows the previous yet parallel novel. asoiaf feels so incomplete without jon's and tyrion's stories. in fact my favorite quote to come out of the series so far is said by tyrion all the way back in a game of thrones the very first novel

why is it that when one man builds a wall, the next man immediately needs to know what’s on the other side?

i hope it doesn't take grrm another five years to release the winds of winter. more so, i hope he doesn't die en route to ~the land of always winter~

( why are there so many characters? at least i only have to like a few of them )

anyway, since it'll definitely be a few years before twow (but at least only a few more months before season three!!!) and i don't think i can handle rereading all five books, in the meantime i will just rewatch the series and write fanfic

( like some starkcest )

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why are there so many songs about rainbows...

Thu, 23 Aug 2012 07:31:18 GMT

...and what's on the other side?
rainbows are visions, but only illusions,
and rainbows have nothing to hide.
so we've been told, and some choose to believe it.
i know they're wrong, wait and see.
someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
the lovers, the dreamers, and me.
—Kermit the Frog

i have known my wifey for twelve years. TWELVE YEARS. AND A DAY. granted, we haven't been civilly united for that long (i don't know any state that lets ten- or eleven-year-old children get married, much less same-sex ones), but that's irrelevant.

we had lunch today at the. most. tacky. faux. french. cafe. (with or without lace details on the cancan dancers painted on the walls) and she happened to overhear a couple of middle-aged women squabbling over the check. wifey: that's us when we get old. mind you, we didn't meet up to commemorate twelve years (and a day) of knowing each other. good thing too considering how disappointing each of our desserts was—cheap cake pretending to be a pear torte, tart made with canned cherry filling. still, those two women were us (or maybe we them?), the number of times we've bickered at the cash register while smiling at the cashier.

in twelve years, we've gone from talking about dragonball-z and gundam wing (hard to imagine, but she used to be so innocent, she thought i was a total freak when i broached the subject of boy-love and proclaimed myself a heero/duo shipper) to plotting ways to benefit off rich, older men (most plots involving a husband's untimely yet convenient death and each other as an accessory). if we were weird back then, we're definitely weirder now.

at least we're still us.

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the primordial density perturbation; or, holy shit i'm an intern

Tue, 21 Aug 2012 00:53:56 GMT

asked professor z if we could meet to discuss possible internships. agreed on 1330. showed up at 1335 to find editor of TinFish Press and my first choice of hosts waiting there with him. got sent to her office straight away. got signed on even straighter away-er.

scored some free chapbooks too. shiny.

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keep calm and kamau

Mon, 11 Jun 2012 20:29:10 GMT

Through the month of June Kumu Kahua Theatre is reviving Alani Apio's Kamau A`e, the second instalment in Apio's as-yet incomplete trilogy dramatising the Hawaiian sovereignty movement. Kamau and Kamau A`e present the struggles over land, language, and identity between Native Hawaiians and haoles, and more importantly the same struggles within the Native Hawaiian community. But the plays present a war that is far too real, far too realistically. Indeed, Hawai`i has its own blood diamonds.

Two semesters ago I read the plays and was assigned the task of seeing into the future of Apio's Kamau universe to write the third instalment. Children are almost never thought of in times of war, so I was drawn to the character of Stevie, the little girl present throughout both plays though not always seen, in that she is the common denominator of the adults at odds with each other.

Kamau a`e—you carry forward that which needs to be remembered. One thing Hawaiians get: we know what is pono.

( Undertow )

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in my life; or, i never made promises lightly

Wed, 18 Apr 2012 02:11:32 GMT

I am petitioning to graduate next semester, only three semesters behind schedule (it'll be my eleventh). The ~Goldenrod Form~ UHM uses as ~Certification of Fulfillment of Major Requirements~ is currently folded in half and shoved into my purse. Just because it's my ticket to freedom doesn't mean I'm going to treat it any differently. Not to mention, it is sandwiched with the ~Declaration of Major: Colleges of Arts and Sciences, For Currently Enrolled and Classified Students Only~ form. I am going to graduate with a BA in English once I've switched from my dusty declared BS in Biology, only eight semesters behind schedule (I switched course-wise in my third).

Basically how this will go next week:

LULU. Hi.

UNSUSPECTING ENG DEPT OFFICE LADY. How may I help you?

LULU. I want to be considered for admission in the department.

LADY. Sure thing.

LULU. And I need a department advisor.

LADY. Well, all right.

LULU. And they need to sign off my ~Goldenrod Form~

LADY stares down LULU before ducking into the dilapidated office of the head of the department, dilapidated only because the department is so marginalised. LULU proceeds to quote from Billy Shakester despite her self-proclaimed hate of the man.

LULU. Or not to be.

As the Hive Queen would have it, I watched this video right after gathering up all my forms. What a wonderful time to (finally) graduate. I mean, if we ignore the latest findings negating the Mayan 2012 apocalypse, I'll have my degree in time for Christmas but won't have to worry about being poor since the world will end shortly thereafter. La. Di. Da.

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will no one tell me? or, throwing words away (revisited)

Sun, 11 Dec 2011 01:35:33 GMT

Despite small alterations in its form, William Wordsworth’s “The Solitary Reaper” retains its function as a ballad. Typically, ballads are composed of quatrains with alternating lines of iambic tetrameter and iambic trimeter and a rhyme scheme of ABCB. Instead, “The Solitary Reaper” consists of four octaves, eight-line stanzas, with lines that are for the most part in iambic tetrameter. And while the first four lines of each octave retain the ballad rhyme scheme, the last four lines are two couplets. Functioning as a ballad, “The Solitary Reaper” is a narrative: the speaker of the poem tells of a lone girl whom he witnesses reaping the season’s harvest. Though he never approaches the stranger like the wandering narrators of most Wordsworth’s ballads, he fixates on the song which she sings and he overhears. It is the girl, the solitary reaper’s, song that provides the basis for the rest of the poem.

( the rest of 'Reaping Emotional Meaning' )

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pushing daisies; or, throwing words away

Sat, 01 Oct 2011 04:37:23 GMT

William Wordsworth’s lyrical ballad “We Are Seven” addresses the notion of death—more specifically, as seen in the opening stanza, the way in which children, simple and attuned to the feelings of being alive, perceive death. The remainder of the poem, as characteristic of ballads, takes the form of a narrative. The narrator, after posing the initial question, relates his encounter with an eight-year-old girl. Though he only asks to know how many children there are in her family, her answer is so perplexing they engage in philosophical discourse that is deceptively simple and childish.

( the rest of 'To Be Is Being' )

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redemption songs; or, nicotine fantasies [o1]

Wed, 17 Aug 2011 22:57:46 GMT

Nicotine Fantasies
Chapter 1: Jacob

( won't you help me sing )

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coffee&cigarettes; or, my muse is anorexic why

Wed, 10 Aug 2011 02:04:39 GMT

A couple years ago, I took a bullshit theatre course to get some 'writing intensive' credits out of the way. Turns out, I didn't even need any more WIs. And while the course itself was truly bullshit, the lab sessions were pretty fun and fulfilling. I even got to write a 5-minute, 3-character play as a final project. Since I'm taking a break from writing fan fiction because, really, my brain is fan fiction-fried, I figure I may as well dig out and dust off the script and get to what I meant to do years ago: convert it into a short story.

I'd started tinkering last summer but hit some roadblocks a few chapters in, and it's been untouched ever since. Maybe this not-so-new self-assigned assignment will make my muse stop acting like such a fan fic-inclined zombie.

( 'Nicotine Fantasies' script )

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non omnis moriar; or, don't wanna say goodbye

Sat, 02 Jul 2011 23:55:04 GMT

So, it took watching 71: Into the Fire a third time for me to actually collect my thoughts and manage to organize a coherent and un-biased response. (The first time, I was too busy crying through most of it and even more well after the closing credits; the second time, I was crying even before the sad parts came up because I knew when they were.) I still cried like a baby the third time. Just saying.

( 2k words: into the spoilers )

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maternity v. monstrosity; or, ash for breadcrumbs

Sun, 29 May 2011 23:13:42 GMT

First rule to fairy tales: the best kind of mother is a dead one. Proven only by "Hansel and Gretel." Though the children are desperate to return to their pussy-whipped father, their biological mother (not step-mother, go figure) conveniently dies when the witch is humped into the oven. Go. Figure.

Here's "Hansel and Gretel" sans Hansel.

( Leaving It All Behind )

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bull's eye; or, into the woods once more

Thu, 05 May 2011 04:43:12 GMT

Dear K______,

In three of the modern variations of Little Red Riding Hood—James Thurber’s “The Little Girl and the Wolf,” Roald Dahl’s “Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf,” and the film Freeway starring Reese Witherspoon—the female protagonist is armed with a gun which she eventually uses to kill the wolf/attacker. The fact that all three protagonists are prepared for the encounter serves as proof of Thurber’s moral: that little girls are no longer easy to fool. These versions of the Little Red tale, then, indicate how folklore adapts to and reflects the time in which it is produced. None of the three stories has retained the didactic or precautionary lesson found in older variations that warn young girls to remain on the path lest they be “eaten” by “wolves.” The implication, of course, is that modern young women are already aware of the potential threat posed by men and have therefore fittingly ensured their own safety by carrying firearms on their person.
Thurber’s Little Girl, Dahl’s Little Red, and Vanessa in Freeway represent more than the clever and well-informed girl. By protecting themselves, they become their own heroes (or rather heroines), making woodcutters and police officers obsolete saviors or “good” male figures. Furthermore, the gun is undeniably a phallic symbol--Dahl’s Little Red goes so far as to draw the gun from her underwear. Marked by their confidence, assertiveness, and trigger fingers, these three girls prevail against the male threat by taking on masculine characteristics. What’s more, in all three adaptations, the girl protagonist shoots and kills the wolf/man while he is disguised as her grandmother. (In fact, Vanessa shoots her “wolf” on two separate occasions.) Thus, on the one hand the young women in these stories succeed as a result of their masculine behavior and weaponry, while on the other the male sexual aggressors are thwarted and ultimately killed dressed in women’s clothing, that is, emasculated.
Though the stories indeed empower young women, the message of gender is a muddled one: women win if they are masculine, but men lose if they are feminine. This message is especially insidious, considering Dahl’s story was written for children. Nevertheless, all three adaptations manage to approach the issues of sexual violence and female obedience that make older versions intimidating with a fair amount of humor, albeit of the dark sort.

So long, and thanks for all the fish,
Lulu Fisher

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spit it out; or, do i come from outer space?

Tue, 03 May 2011 04:08:56 GMT

So aside from that one entry, I missed most of national poetry writing month. But two days late won't hurt.

Gravity
Our call to arms: the newly risen moon,

Her howl of provocation unrestrained.

We heed, haphazard: armor shed and strewn

along, familiar territory gained

with practiced hands, in earnest contours mapped,

two heartbeats shared like sonic booms resound

across the linen war zone, spirits rapt

with bliss inflicted, minds sensation-drowned.

But even we to sated dreams relent;

thus, white flag raised, we yield to deeper night.

With dawn's approach, She makes Her slow descent

until next She in mortals' blood ignite

the roiling taste for skin; with fresh desire

we'll charge once more and welcome friendly fire.

--English sonnet, October 2010

And here are two versions of the same-ish poem, written at very different times.

What the Moon Saw

Last night the moon seemed to say something

As across the water we watched the city burn

Distant flames licked our sea-chilled heels

And our breath was as salty as the wind

Blood rushed louder than the surf

Sweeping us in its rolling embrace
Calling us to depths starry as the sky

Neither and both sinking and floating

Earthbound bodies learned gravity's dance

In the gauzy fingers of celestial light

Feeling only sand and skin

And a pulse shared by two

What the moon said we both failed to hear

--free verse, September 2009

What the Moon Saw (Revisited)

Last night, the moon seemed to say something

as across the water we watched the city burn.

Nicotine exhalations replaced the meaningful words

I'd promised myself to say.

Across the water the city burned,

its flames silenced by my roaring thoughts.

I'd promised you once

that being alone doesn't mean being lonely.
But the silent flames and my roaring thoughts

drown in the star-strewn waves,
hissing of loneliness without being alone.

Like the moon is pulled to the earth--

isolated in the star-strewn skies--

a victim of uncontrollable gravity,

my body, waning, is pulled to yours

with no hope of ever reaching.

So I, the willing victim to gravity,
replace meaningful words with nicotine sighs,

giving up hope of ever finding courage:

Last night, neither the moon nor I could say,

"Hold me closer."

--pantoum, November 2010

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tragedy; or, nazi teachers and navy whores

Sat, 30 Apr 2011 11:52:53 GMT

Did I really just read a 500-page novel in four days? And before that, a 200-pager in a day and a half? What has my life come to? At least both books were enjoyable enough. Though I almost wish I could be ashamed of all the reading I do for school. At the same time, it gives me an excuse to ignore people.

( I go too far...I am remarkable (when it comes to spoilers) )

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english excitement; or, come have a bathe

Sun, 17 Apr 2011 00:01:16 GMT

How can the Edwardian A Room with a View be toe-curl-inducingly disgusting and corset-swooningly romantic at the same time? I let the novel have it in my critique, a move I should've planned out better considering it was assigned because my (totally awesome) British professor actually likes the book. Not that I don't like it. I'll probably read it and watch the movie numerous times in the future, each time (probably) feeling both grossed out and wooed. Come on. Daniel Day-Lewis as Cecil? Rockstar. Besides, A Room with a View and A Clockwork Orange now have me listening to an obscene amount of Beethoven, which comes in handy when I'm trying to drown out the obnoxious elevator music played at Glazers.

( spoilers as always )

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literature is life; or, this is me getting my kicks

Sun, 10 Apr 2011 04:41:33 GMT

I've just finished playing catch-up with my schoolwork (read: forced myself to stop writing and/or reading fanfiction for a single day) while on a caffeine high. And even five hours ahead of time. I shouldn't feel so accomplished, considering the work should've been done weeks ago, but Jupiter smite me: I'm smug. I managed to watch and read an eclectic combination of British stuff, and provide some meaningful commentary. I'm posting the criticism not to show off (it's honestly not the best work I could've done), but to recommend all three works. Have at it.

( SPOILERS ABOUND )

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gossamer sleep; or, my ink well's dry

Thu, 07 Apr 2011 21:50:27 GMT

Seeing as how it's national poetry writing month, I ought to post something other than commentaries on British literature and fairy tale adaptations. Last year, I entered in The Chronicle of Higher Education poetry contest. The rules were plain and simple: write a poem in any form in response to John Keats's "On first looking into Chapman's Homer":

MUCH have I travell’d in the realms of gold,

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;

Round many western islands have I been

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told

That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne;

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

When a new planet swims into his ken;

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes

He star’d at the Pacific—and all his men

Look’d at each other with a wild surmise—

Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

A Petrarchan (that is, Italian) sonnet. Of course, I had to go and choose to write a Petrarchan sonnet myself to submit:

Through Muted Night the Quiet Dawn

If only, cleaving voids and heaven, could those eyes

a haven see past cosmic storms' obscurity;

perceive between the far-flung stars lucidity;

receive assurances divine from silent skies.

The jury, robed in thick abyss, unjust, denies

that mortal respite and relief from gravity

nor solitude. For she, in youth's naivety,

could not foresee dead ends untimely, love's goodbyes.

But she, in night's embrace of gossamer sleep, will find:

In dreams, not skyward prayer, can memories endure,

do heartfelt vows with whispering wind become entwined.

Though she may wake, her heart still hesitant, unsure,

the morning's gauzy fingers, radiant, extend

to dry the tears she's shed, that heart to gently mend.

I didn't win, or else that would've been one of the first things I'd say, but I did manage to get an honorable mention of sorts. Besides, Alyson Ark Iott won hands down. Her poem is like a slow burn, and hearing it is even more intense. Read and/or listen to it here.

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into the woods; or, waste not, want not

Thu, 07 Apr 2011 05:59:15 GMT

Dear K______,

Like Charles Dickens, I'm so captivated by the "Little Red Riding Hood" cycle of folk/fairy tales. It's fun reading the story's evolutions: from teaching feminine behavior, to warning about men, to valorizing men, to illustrating a change in feminine behavior. And until reading Maria Tatar's commentary, I've never thought of it as showing competition between generations when Little Red lives but Granny stays very dead and eaten. But I was most interested in the adaptations by Roald Dahl and Angela Carter.

Dahl is undeniably an author of literature for children, so his "Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf" and "The Three Little Pigs" are suitably comical. Simply reading on the surface, Little Red is cheeky, contemporary and (who didn't notice?) homicidal. She shoots the wolf preemptively in the first story, then, opportunistic girl that she is, shoots the piggy who employed her as a mercenary in the second. As strange as she is, I prefer Dahl’s Little Red to her older counterparts who couldn't put two and two together despite noticing how hairy, etc. Granny is. Reading deeper though, I think there’s metaphorical weight behind her pulling the gun out of her underwear instead of a basket like James Thurber's Little Red. Guns are typically associated with masculinity, so producing it from her "knickers" makes the gun a phallic symbol. Dahl's Little Red becoming her own hero also makes the Grimms' huntsman obsolete.

On the other hand, Carter's protagonist remains characteristically feminine, but assumes an entirely self-constructed, self-controlled sexual role. The story follows the rape motif found in many of the adaptations, but instead provides an outcome similar to the moral of Thurber's story: little girls are no longer easy to fool. Rather than shoot the wolf (that is, the male sexual aggressor), Carter's Little Red meets him halfway and even asserts herself sexually. Arguably, she becomes masculine like Dahl's Little Red by being sexually aggressive, but I think her sexuality is of the feminine sort. It's just one far different from the sexuality expected of or imposed upon women, in that Carter's Little Red puts herself equal to and maybe even above men. She tames the man-made-wolf-made-man as a woman.

Considering the story’s conclusion, Carter’s version also differs from the older didactic tellings of little girls and men in meaning. The first half seems to be the obligatory warning concerning men, but ultimately, Carter’s apparent message is not for girls to fear men but to find and maintain their own form of control in the expected interactions with men. This message is proof that folklore adapts to the times. Young women no longer have to stick to the path, but they should nevertheless be armed with social knowledge and made aware of what they are capable of (so that they don’t need to carry handguns). Although Carter was known for being a feminist author, I think it’s refreshing “The Company of Wolves” doesn’t follow the notorious and unapproachable man-hating vein of some (if not most) feminist writing. Sexual equality is meaningless if it’s rooted in fear or hate.

Cheers,

Lulu Fisher

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trigger happy; or, where's eden at?

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 01:07:05 GMT

The story that started it all. Ironically, this installment of "Sins of the Children" is an adaptation of Genesis. Heresy, blasphemy, etc. unintended.

( For He So Loved the World )

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