Friday, November 28, 2008
Any Day Now
I have always moved at my own pace. Sometimes it is a very slow pace. Such is the case with the promise I made to myself almost a year ago that there would be new writings to post. Things are finally starting to happen, and the words are making their way from pen to paper, keyboard to screen.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Collage: star in your own damn show
As I was making this second collage, my excitement grew as I realized it was beginning to turn out as I had envisioned it. When you stop worrying and just start doing, things happen."Star in your own damn show" does not refer to the inundation of mindless "reality" shows that follow celebrities and wanna-be celebrities around, preening and congratulating themselves on their own fabulousness. While I freely admit that a certain level of narcissism lies within all of us, there is a very thick line between your basic self-love and self-obsession.
With this collage, it speaks to me to go inward and take inventory, edit things that need attention and change, and take an active role in life. When I look at it, I am reminded of a quote that an acting instructor shared with the class at the end of the term. He told us, "Star in your life instead of just doing cameos in the lives of others."
Collage: the road to inspiration......
I have been diligently cutting up magazines and collecting scraps of paper since I was fifteen, with the hope and the craving to make collages and stretch my creativity in all directions. One of my favorite quotes is something like, "The difficulty is not in the doing; it's in the getting ready to do it."Ain't this the truth for me! Besides one very large collage I managed to complete when I was fifteen (what stunted all the creative courage back then?), what you see here is my first attempt at collaging. After taking a workshop in August (which was both inspiring and incredibly frustrating), I finally found the courage to start in on my creative aspirations again.
Moods and Phrases
Tucked away in various notebooks are these little phrases that I've written over the years and can't quite figure out what to do with. Most of them are pieces of songs I have playing in my head, but everything I've written in an effort to expand them falls short of feeling right. I like most of them as they are and think that they're enough on their own. Is it out of laziness that I think that and have given up on trying to add to these phrases? I'm not sure, but.....
When I put them all on paper together, I noticed how well for me the phrases portrayed the moods I felt in the time and the moment in which they were written. A sense of peace and satisfaction came over me because I was able to portray everything I was feeling (sometimes the same feeling repeatedly!) in just a few short words. Sometimes less is more.
So here are some of the little ditties I refer to as a mood:phrase.....
When I put them all on paper together, I noticed how well for me the phrases portrayed the moods I felt in the time and the moment in which they were written. A sense of peace and satisfaction came over me because I was able to portray everything I was feeling (sometimes the same feeling repeatedly!) in just a few short words. Sometimes less is more.
So here are some of the little ditties I refer to as a mood:phrase.....
mood:phrase
I've got stairs on my t-shirt
I wish I could climb to get out of here
They lead to a door on the back of my t-shirt
and I wish I could walk through and hide in there.
I wish I could climb to get out of here
They lead to a door on the back of my t-shirt
and I wish I could walk through and hide in there.
mood:phrase
Noise of the day fades--
slow-motion world for just a moment.
Night sky deep blue, sad in the silence.
Liquid stars spill down from the sky,
displacing lights.
Dark clouds haunting everywhere--
they offer up the stolen sky
but this time the clouds won't last.
slow-motion world for just a moment.
Night sky deep blue, sad in the silence.
Liquid stars spill down from the sky,
displacing lights.
Dark clouds haunting everywhere--
they offer up the stolen sky
but this time the clouds won't last.
mood:phrase
i'm dancing but i'm standing still
i'm dancing but i'm standing still
and i feel so spent
yet i haven't moved an inch.
i'm dancing but i'm standing still
and i feel so spent
yet i haven't moved an inch.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Poser
She wanted someone to take her picture. She stood for hours in front of the mirror, posing, smiling at herself.
She admired those glossy girls in magazines, fluffed hair, clothes clinging to thin frames, frolicking over pages, pouting. Bronzed models teetering in stilettos, cooing in the arms of a staged beau. A flash of teeth, an edgy little stare, a whimsical gaze into the distance.
She'd try to look off into the distance, but could not see what she looked like this way. That's why she wanted someone to take her picture:
In black and white or color, with her hair falling down her back; glamour eyes, upswept curls, a slinky dress; barefaced, in a bath of marigolds. She'd smile, she'd laugh, and the camera would capture her, head tilted back, eyes closed in a moment of joy.
She wanted someone to admire and study her own glossy pictures:
Her lips would be perfect and soft, her whole face beautiful, and it would last forever, not just for the minute she stood frozen in front of the mirror, looking beyond the imaginary camera into the distance, and then breaking one pose after another.
Written by: Kori (2004)
She admired those glossy girls in magazines, fluffed hair, clothes clinging to thin frames, frolicking over pages, pouting. Bronzed models teetering in stilettos, cooing in the arms of a staged beau. A flash of teeth, an edgy little stare, a whimsical gaze into the distance.
She'd try to look off into the distance, but could not see what she looked like this way. That's why she wanted someone to take her picture:
In black and white or color, with her hair falling down her back; glamour eyes, upswept curls, a slinky dress; barefaced, in a bath of marigolds. She'd smile, she'd laugh, and the camera would capture her, head tilted back, eyes closed in a moment of joy.
She wanted someone to admire and study her own glossy pictures:
Her lips would be perfect and soft, her whole face beautiful, and it would last forever, not just for the minute she stood frozen in front of the mirror, looking beyond the imaginary camera into the distance, and then breaking one pose after another.
Written by: Kori (2004)
still
it's late
but there is light
the kind that whispers
quiet
in the arms
of unhaunted darkness
i'm restless
the silence
blinding
darkness into light-
waiting.
it's late
my eyes wander
out of dreams
and open to you
sleeping
i'm trembling in the stillness-
the blink of my eyes
disturbing
the beat of your heart
descending
the late night
darkness
surrounds only you
a spotlight
defining
distance.
Written by: Kori (1999)
but there is light
the kind that whispers
quiet
in the arms
of unhaunted darkness
i'm restless
the silence
blinding
darkness into light-
waiting.
it's late
my eyes wander
out of dreams
and open to you
sleeping
i'm trembling in the stillness-
the blink of my eyes
disturbing
the beat of your heart
descending
the late night
darkness
surrounds only you
a spotlight
defining
distance.
Written by: Kori (1999)
Thursday, August 9, 2007
the woman
I know she's a man. I had to do a double-take, but still- you can just tell. She is more of a woman than a woman, but you can understand the effort. People whisper, customers and employees alike. I watch them put it all together. A few customers say they won't shop at a store that hires "people like that." Co-workers think she's self-conscious and that's why she doesn't talk to anyone.
She seems to like me. He says hi in her soft voice and purses her lips like no woman would. He tells me about her kids, three of them, and church, and trips to the zoo. I say how great and smile and I never ask what seem like ordinary questions: spouse's name, how long they've been together, what her spouse does for a living.
I never ask what I really want to know: does she ever dress like himself? who is part of the "we" when she talks about their plans for a vacation? is he happy even though people gawk at her? He is probably sick of explaining herself to people who think they have the right to the answers, sick of the stares, the judgment, the curiosity, those baffled and stammering people.
And then there's me: am I really any different from those inquiring minds because I conceal my intrigue better?
Written by: Kori (2005)
She seems to like me. He says hi in her soft voice and purses her lips like no woman would. He tells me about her kids, three of them, and church, and trips to the zoo. I say how great and smile and I never ask what seem like ordinary questions: spouse's name, how long they've been together, what her spouse does for a living.
I never ask what I really want to know: does she ever dress like himself? who is part of the "we" when she talks about their plans for a vacation? is he happy even though people gawk at her? He is probably sick of explaining herself to people who think they have the right to the answers, sick of the stares, the judgment, the curiosity, those baffled and stammering people.
And then there's me: am I really any different from those inquiring minds because I conceal my intrigue better?
Written by: Kori (2005)
Friday, June 15, 2007
Tooth Fairy
I am inside my mouth.
Contrary to what I thought, my teeth are not tiny grains of rice. They are big, vast, and rough. I stare at the back of my mouth, looking at the wisdom tooth that has partially erupted in the back corner, looking so snug and not the least interested in fully emerging. I turn around and see the long road ahead of me, all those teeth. I dance along them, making my way to the front on the keyboard of my mouth. Easy enough to walk on until I reach the front teeth, and then it's tricky, almost like crossing a tight rope. But nothing to be scared of: if I fall forward, I can reach out my arms, pushing against my lip so I land softly on moist pink cushion. Falling the other way, though, is a bit scarier, more of an oasis than the creek on the other side. But still, nothing to worry about - my tongue will roll me back up onto the porcelain flatland.
I reach the other side of my mouth. I pay more attention to my teeth now.
Mm-hmm...it looks like maybe I have a cavity there. I stamp my foot into the cavity center, balancing myself by holding onto an upper tooth. Feels like this one can be saved. I take out a small spade from my tool belt and I dig, dig, dig into the crevices. Then, I whip out my trusty rag and get down on my hands and knees and I scrub my teeth. I scrub and scrub every nook and cranny.
This is the way to do it: better than what any bristled brush can do.
Written by: Kori (2005)
Contrary to what I thought, my teeth are not tiny grains of rice. They are big, vast, and rough. I stare at the back of my mouth, looking at the wisdom tooth that has partially erupted in the back corner, looking so snug and not the least interested in fully emerging. I turn around and see the long road ahead of me, all those teeth. I dance along them, making my way to the front on the keyboard of my mouth. Easy enough to walk on until I reach the front teeth, and then it's tricky, almost like crossing a tight rope. But nothing to be scared of: if I fall forward, I can reach out my arms, pushing against my lip so I land softly on moist pink cushion. Falling the other way, though, is a bit scarier, more of an oasis than the creek on the other side. But still, nothing to worry about - my tongue will roll me back up onto the porcelain flatland.
I reach the other side of my mouth. I pay more attention to my teeth now.
Mm-hmm...it looks like maybe I have a cavity there. I stamp my foot into the cavity center, balancing myself by holding onto an upper tooth. Feels like this one can be saved. I take out a small spade from my tool belt and I dig, dig, dig into the crevices. Then, I whip out my trusty rag and get down on my hands and knees and I scrub my teeth. I scrub and scrub every nook and cranny.
This is the way to do it: better than what any bristled brush can do.
Written by: Kori (2005)
Sunday, June 3, 2007
The World-at-Large
The Great World Atlas is waiting on the bench outside of the bookstore. It does not appear to be abandoned, but considering the size of the book, it is hard to imagine it could be forgotten. Perhaps that is the very reason The Great World Atlas is on the bench, its owner tiring of lugging it around from here to there, stopping for a rest on the bench, and then nonchalantly getting up, walking away from the huge book without a glance back.
From my spot at the coffee bar inside the bookstore, I watch a couple as they walk by the atlas, smiling and pointing at it with their cups of coffee. They are dressed almost identically, in army green shorts, button-down shirts, and sunglasses. But the man is less interested in the atlas than the woman, who might have picked it up if they had paused to take a sip of coffee. A college student ambles along the sidewalk just after them, a big backpack strapped onto his back. He is juggling notebooks and a sweatshirt and trying to eat a sandwich. Taking a bite of his sandwich, he sees the atlas and frowns. As he keeps walking and chewing, he seems to be processing the idea of leaving behind one of his own textbooks on the bench.
Now an older man with curly, floppy hair has chanced upon it, smiling pleasantly, as if this is just the thing he was hoping to find on a bench surrounding a tree on a sunny April day. He sits down next to the atlas, opens it, and in just the time it took me to write this, has tired of the atlas and leaves. He has left it open. The muted greens, blues, yellows and pinks of the world are exposed now. The glossy pages are vulnerable. What if it starts raining? The oceans will spill over the green valleys, the yellow deserts, and the pink other. The Great World Atlas will be a wad of pulpy gray matter.
Who will rescue it? Another man approaches, a lanky fellow with thin hair and glasses, possibly the hero of the day. He walks directly over to the tree with a sense of purpose. He inspects the tree, walks around it, and sees the atlas. He pauses and bends over to look at the open pages. Then he leaves.
No one notices the atlas for awhile. I wonder why more people don't glance down at the atlas, see that it is alone, and at least offer a small little nod, acknowledging the incongruity of it. I resolve to rescue the atlas if no one claims it before I leave the bookstore. I think of bringing it to the cashier at one of the counters and smugly explaining that I have rescued this poor book from abandonment. Could they please put it in lost and found? Yes, I think, yes. I will walk purposefully out to the bench, watch the pages ripple into each other as I close it down, and then triumphantly present the faded red, fabric-covered Great World Atlas to the unsuspecting cashier.
I finish my coffee, put my books in my bag, weave through aisles, and make my way to the exit. I am two blocks away, headed to my car, before I realize I have completely forgotten about the atlas.
The book remains open. The breeze is turning the pages.
*Written by: Kori (2005)
From my spot at the coffee bar inside the bookstore, I watch a couple as they walk by the atlas, smiling and pointing at it with their cups of coffee. They are dressed almost identically, in army green shorts, button-down shirts, and sunglasses. But the man is less interested in the atlas than the woman, who might have picked it up if they had paused to take a sip of coffee. A college student ambles along the sidewalk just after them, a big backpack strapped onto his back. He is juggling notebooks and a sweatshirt and trying to eat a sandwich. Taking a bite of his sandwich, he sees the atlas and frowns. As he keeps walking and chewing, he seems to be processing the idea of leaving behind one of his own textbooks on the bench.
Now an older man with curly, floppy hair has chanced upon it, smiling pleasantly, as if this is just the thing he was hoping to find on a bench surrounding a tree on a sunny April day. He sits down next to the atlas, opens it, and in just the time it took me to write this, has tired of the atlas and leaves. He has left it open. The muted greens, blues, yellows and pinks of the world are exposed now. The glossy pages are vulnerable. What if it starts raining? The oceans will spill over the green valleys, the yellow deserts, and the pink other. The Great World Atlas will be a wad of pulpy gray matter.
Who will rescue it? Another man approaches, a lanky fellow with thin hair and glasses, possibly the hero of the day. He walks directly over to the tree with a sense of purpose. He inspects the tree, walks around it, and sees the atlas. He pauses and bends over to look at the open pages. Then he leaves.
No one notices the atlas for awhile. I wonder why more people don't glance down at the atlas, see that it is alone, and at least offer a small little nod, acknowledging the incongruity of it. I resolve to rescue the atlas if no one claims it before I leave the bookstore. I think of bringing it to the cashier at one of the counters and smugly explaining that I have rescued this poor book from abandonment. Could they please put it in lost and found? Yes, I think, yes. I will walk purposefully out to the bench, watch the pages ripple into each other as I close it down, and then triumphantly present the faded red, fabric-covered Great World Atlas to the unsuspecting cashier.
I finish my coffee, put my books in my bag, weave through aisles, and make my way to the exit. I am two blocks away, headed to my car, before I realize I have completely forgotten about the atlas.
The book remains open. The breeze is turning the pages.
*Written by: Kori (2005)
inspiration sandwich
We all need an ego boost once in awhile, right? When it comes to writing, a big ego boost is in order. So when I'm feeling low about my writing, I turn to a couple little things that always bring me back around. Toot my own horn? Don't mind if I do.....
I emailed a writing instructor in college once to thank him for the A+. His response to that email never fails to inspire me and keep me in check, not just about writing, but in the things I know I need to work on as a person. He wrote, in part:
"You got the grade I wanted to give you. DESPITE the fact that you continue to keep a lot of thoughts to yourself in the social/intellectual discourse part of the workshop. The writing was strong, and I thought you ought to get at least a terminal message from me about that, as I suspected that this would probably be the last workshop you'd take with me, and I didn't know if I'd get the chance to tell you how strong I thought the portfolio was. You deserve to hear that - especially for the times when you may doubt your talent, or your obligation to keep honoring it with practice. But one of these days I'll get run over by a car, like one of my favorite (dead) French writers, and it will be too late then for me to see you blossom in that other way - I mean where you fearlessly open your mouth and say what you feel and think and perceive and believe, no matter who else is in the room, or how intimidating their critical intelligences may be. I know from your writing that those strong qualities of feeling/thought/perception/belief/style are there, inside; and I know by the fact that you've stuck it out with me for 3 workshops that there's something useful you've gotten from quietly & consistently & attentively (sitting) there; but I figure I'll have tire marks on my spine before the courage you exhibit on the page catches up to your vocal chords in class.
In any case, it was good to have you close by - I mean sitting right there, every Tuesday, at my right hand.....Really, I could see you laughing at my goof-ups and hamming from the corner of my eye, and it did my heart good. Some student writers are such fierce little revolutionaries, they don't know how to loosen up & laugh, although they do know how to criticize the hell out of any writing that isn't exactly like what they're doing. So as long as you keep writing well, it's OK at some essential level to remain one who watches & listens & maintains a bemused or thoughtful detachment since that has always been one of the symptoms of being a writer: the silent witness at the margins who remembers what everyone else forgot...."
It's funny how often I think of his words. And years later, I'm still somewhat waiting for the courage to speak. But, the writing - well, that speaks for itself.
I emailed a writing instructor in college once to thank him for the A+. His response to that email never fails to inspire me and keep me in check, not just about writing, but in the things I know I need to work on as a person. He wrote, in part:
"You got the grade I wanted to give you. DESPITE the fact that you continue to keep a lot of thoughts to yourself in the social/intellectual discourse part of the workshop. The writing was strong, and I thought you ought to get at least a terminal message from me about that, as I suspected that this would probably be the last workshop you'd take with me, and I didn't know if I'd get the chance to tell you how strong I thought the portfolio was. You deserve to hear that - especially for the times when you may doubt your talent, or your obligation to keep honoring it with practice. But one of these days I'll get run over by a car, like one of my favorite (dead) French writers, and it will be too late then for me to see you blossom in that other way - I mean where you fearlessly open your mouth and say what you feel and think and perceive and believe, no matter who else is in the room, or how intimidating their critical intelligences may be. I know from your writing that those strong qualities of feeling/thought/perception/belief/style are there, inside; and I know by the fact that you've stuck it out with me for 3 workshops that there's something useful you've gotten from quietly & consistently & attentively (sitting) there; but I figure I'll have tire marks on my spine before the courage you exhibit on the page catches up to your vocal chords in class.
In any case, it was good to have you close by - I mean sitting right there, every Tuesday, at my right hand.....Really, I could see you laughing at my goof-ups and hamming from the corner of my eye, and it did my heart good. Some student writers are such fierce little revolutionaries, they don't know how to loosen up & laugh, although they do know how to criticize the hell out of any writing that isn't exactly like what they're doing. So as long as you keep writing well, it's OK at some essential level to remain one who watches & listens & maintains a bemused or thoughtful detachment since that has always been one of the symptoms of being a writer: the silent witness at the margins who remembers what everyone else forgot...."
It's funny how often I think of his words. And years later, I'm still somewhat waiting for the courage to speak. But, the writing - well, that speaks for itself.
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