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$artemisdart: (fractal)$

Symmetry is important to me. I was alternating POVs between my two main leads for 7 chapters, and then I threw in a third POV in chapter 8.

Then I was busily writing away, and realized I could repeat the pattern -- alternating POVs between my two mains for the next 7 chapters, and then returning to the third POV in chapter 16.

Unfortunately, after that, the pattern breaks. I won't have 8 more chapters in me after this main arc completes. BUT, I can halve it -- maybe 4 more alternating between the main leads, and a fifth one at the end just to wrap things up in a bow.

That would be a total of 21 chapters... not quite perfect, as it would have been if I'd done 6+1 / 6+1 / 6+1, but this is where the story beats are falling. Not everything is perfectly symmetrical. As long as there is some internally consistent structure / order, that will satisfy my urge for balance.

Current Mood: contemplative

echsdoc challenged me to write a sestina. Since this is my first sestina, I am calling it:

Virgin Sestina

Kneeling before dawn, I look to the Virgin.
She stands with half a smile, calm and smooth as snow
sheeting a pool of ice. Above her is a pointed arch
of stone, gilt with flame.
That side of the vast and quiet church
is just for me; a spell to ward off change.

Gold patens beneath our chins, like change
glinting at the bottom of a pond. The virgin
frost slides under my feet as I leave the church,
find the car and brush off the mounded snow.
The engine catches, its tiny flame
a spark of life cupped, like the candle beneath the arch

before the statue. Her face stays still, an arch
half-smile remaining true as time processes past. I see no change
in her when stubborn bulbs push up, creating flames
of daffodils, flower fires of color from the virgin
soil moistened to the roots by the melting snow.
At Annunciation, they take her statue from the church.

With great attention, she is carried around the church
by the congregation in the warming air, the canopy an arch
above her head veiled in stone, rose petals on the ground like snow.
I check my pockets for some change
to buy a hot sausage on a bun: a benefit for the Friends of the Virgin
Society. The sausage stand man grills it on a flame,

like St. Lawrence, only with mustard. That tiny, hidden flame
in the belly of the cart, in the shadow of the great church
while spring wind whips away the prayers to the Virgin
before they rise. I breathe on my fingers and arch
them out, playing church and steeple. The man gives me change
for the sausage. "They say it might snow,"

he says, making conversation. I will not see the snow,
for I am leaving soon. I smile at him anyway. That flame
is in me now, a stubborn ember instigating change,
and I must bear it. I look back one last time at the church
and the statue and the flowers and the arch
above the storybook mother, the perfect stone Virgin.

Outside, falling snow. Inside, you and I make a new church.
Your eyes' flame and your back's arch,
calling me to change, now that I am no longer a virgin.

So, here's that poem about compost I started last week. I'm not sure if I like it yet.

A Friendly Warning

Benign neglect, they call it. Certainly
it seems benign: eggshells and coffee grounds
go in, peach pits and carrot tips, a rose,
wilted, the parings of a thousand nights,

to stew and simmer, turn and ripen, change --
alchemy, strangeness. Lavished with beetles,
laced with curling grubs (parenthetical)
and shot with worms, the pile considers you

(your shovel, too) and heats to think of your
tibia and fibula, radius
and ulna pressed in clay, your bones beneath
those loaves fluoresced with moldy-seafoam stars.

When you dig again, beware. It can turn
under your spade much faster than you think.

Christmas Gift Tetractys (1-2-3-4-10-10-4-3-2-1)

                                                                                       I
                                                                             spent hours
                                                                             picking out
                                                                    your Christmas gifts:
                                                          so many lovely little useful cute
                                              and thoughtful things, small tokens of my love.
                                                                          And you didn't
                                                                               even say
                                                                              thank you.

                                                                                   Bitch.

$artemisdart: (fractal)$

I saw someone playing electronic Sudoku on the bus this morning. Reminded me of a "Trois-par-Huit" poem I wrote on the subject a year or two ago.

("Trois-par-Huit" -- a made-up modern poetic form I found on ShadowPoetry's list of poetic forms. At one point I was going to try to write one of each kind, just to see if I could... maybe I should take that up again.)

Anyway. My 3-6-9-12-12-9-6-3, aabbbccc poem:

( Sudoku )

Today is Ash Wednesday. If I'd remembered that last night was Mardi Gras, I would have done something beyond going to bed at 9:30. :-P

Another poem. I wrote this on the bus on the way home, from the last snatches of a dream this morning.

                                         Sky Psalm

                    You in sky
                                                           I saw,

           streaks of cirrus
                                                           hair,

                       vertebrae
                                                             high & pale --

          my horizon pivot
                                                           round the divot

at your base of spine.
                                                             Not mine

                          to hold,
                                                             not one

                   to stay, you
                                                           glanced

                           down

                                            once,

                                                            then

                 cleanly blew
                                                              away

The Confusion of Disgrace

(a collaboration between me and two high school friends. Circa 1992)

She was a gorgeous, spoiled Southern belle. He was an aborigine from Walla-Walla. Who would have guessed that they would meet for the first time in a crowded and rapidly-sinking gondola in the murky, romantic canals of Venice? He offered to step out in order to save her silken finery from the algae-clad depths, but it was obvious that even this measure would not keep her afloat. Stepping out of the gondola bravely, overcome by her pulsating gorgeousity, he failed to notice that that gondolier was standing on his cloak. With a loud splash, flying vegetation spewed over the more-than-ample cleavage of the torrid beauty, Blayze.

"Oh, sir, you are awful high-flootin'," Blayze gasped breathily. He smiled sheepishly, trying in vain to grasp on to the last shards of his suavity. With a burst of energy, he heaved himself over the boatside, to lie, drippily, at her feet, impelled helplessly by the blazing scarlet depths of her eyes.

"Are you a demon?" he gasped.

"Only when I'm around you," she breathed huskily.

Grasping her by the bosoms, he carried her over his dusky, well-constructed shoulder to a nearby bedroom, rentable by the hour. "I think I'll put in four lire," he rasped torridly. Unable to wait, he sailed her across the room, to fling her on the wide, velvety cot. She gasped as her frail body melted under his masculinity. Panting, their hot mouths found each other.

"What's your name?" he demanded to her straining bodice.

"Blayze," she whispered huskily.

"Are you-- covered for life?" he murmured, nibbling at her earlobe. "Do you have fire insurance? How about your home? Is that covered too? What's your deductible, sweetie? Is your furniture covered?"

Unable to resist his throbbing manhood, Blayze ended up buying a complete line of life, home, and accident insurance. When she sadly said goodbye to Venice, she knew she would never be uncovered again.

The Disgrace of Confusion

(a collaboration between me and 4 high school friends)

She was an ugly but wealthy Russian countess, so bland that her parents named her Blanche. He was a potato-counter from Boise, Idaho. Who would have guessed that they would meet at a McDonald's in Ontario, Canada, as they rubbed shoulders in the crowded line?

He placed his order in Gaelic, she in French. As their glances crossed over the grease-dripping french fries, both knew that this would be an easy lay.

"Do you use ketchup?" he asked sultrily.

"No," she quipped, quelling his query, "High in sugar, high in salt; if you get sick, it's not my fault."

He was devastated by her charm and wit, and both retired to Aisle Thirteen of a nearby K-Mart to fulfill their burgeoning passion in the Gardening Center. They pushed aside the rakes and hoes to create a space on the cold, dirty linoleum floor. Whipping a rubber hose out of the way, Raoul plastered her eyebrows with hot kisses.

"Do you... prefer potassium fertilizers?" he rasped.

"What's the nitrogen content on that... heavy... fifty-pound bag?" she breathed, unable to resist his manliness.

Suddenly, their passion was interrupted by a swarm of shoppers headed for the aisle, trying to take advantage of the Blue-Light special on Tater-Tots. Bewildered by the sudden cessation of their solitude, Blanche and the torrid Raoul were swept apart in the blossoming crowd. As she sadly said goodbye to Canada, Blanche knew that she would never need to buy seed again.

conceived by the racine, olga r.i., n.game, enjine, & a. rash

Of the Confusion, Disgrace

(I am the only one to blame for this one)

She was a chesty Russian peasant girl whose favorite word was "Da." He was a media consultant working out of Dallas, Texas. Who would have guessed that they would meet on an out-of-control speedboat somewhere off the coast of Yugoslavia? Selflessly, he jettisoned his bulky attache case and, grasping her firm, supple big toe, leaped onto the bobbing chunk of alligator skin.

The quarters were extremely cramped, which caused Babushka and Vince to become very close very quickly. "What's your name?" he gasped, fondling her calves with one hand while he warded off an attacking silverfish with the other.

"Da," said Babushka, the ardent depths of her eyes crossing the language barrier.

"Have you always had such-- smooth-- feet?" he murmured into her left ankle. She melted, unable to resist the depth of his attraction for her lower body. His slightly squishy, thirtysomething body pressed her onto the leather briefcase, slick with sea salt, and the choppy water swirled her soggy hair around its handle.

Suddenly, both taut figures felt the attache case lift off from the surface of the ocean. "Halloa, mates!" a very familiar voice called; and when Vince turned his head reluctantly from Babushka's heaving knees, he saw the Beatles, all four of them, jumping up and down excitedly on the roof of a gigantic, plush-interiored yellow submarine. His head swam as he saw that none of the famous four was wearing any kind of footgear.

Jilting the dripping maiden in the blink of an eye, Vince disappeared into the behemoth, followed by the capering rock idols. As she sadly said goodbye to Vince, Babushka knew that she would never be rocked and rolled again.

Created by All Me!

So, yesterday

autumnbottom, my friend visiting London (Hiya!) told me about a local story -- a full-grown tomato plant, complete with fruit, growing in a crack of a busy highway there.

This tale of hope and gritty perseverance inspired me to write a poem last night. I tried a new form for me, a villanelle, which is a difficult form to pull off. It's a 19-line poem with the rhyme scheme aba aba aba aba aba abaa, with lines one and three repeating in certain set places throughout the rest of the poem.

I've posted it to the poetry site I go to every so often. Since I'm so proud of myself for writing a villanelle, I'll post it here also. ;-)

Highway Tomato Plant (A Villanelle)

Pushing through pavement with a questing root
a young tomato plant drinks in the day
while thousands bustle past on their commute.

Buses and lorries pass in close pursuit.
Improbably, you flowered in that clay,
pushing through pavement with a questing root.

Your nectared stalks and downy greens refute
the concrete median's impassive gray,
while thousands bustle past on their commute.

What stubborn urge impelled you to set shoot
where stronger stuff than you is ground away?
Pushing through pavement with a questing root

and turning sun and soil to leaf and fruit
is your vocation, life your salted pay.
While thousands bustle past on their commute,

you persevere, an obdurate salute
to vital hope. Yours is the right of way,
pushing through pavement with a questing root
while thousands bustle past on their commute.

Current Mood: accomplished

I wrote a sonnet I'm happy with.

Cemetery Walk

I pass them by with care, these tiny graves
With marble lambs above a single date.
No range can compass it, no reason sate
A mother's arms, deprived of all she craves.

This spot should stand apart, immune from all
The healthy rudeness of abundant life.
Yet here, a million insects buzzing rife
Where black-clad parents forced their shoulders tall.

Perhaps this is a fitting circumstance:
That seeds should swell to saplings in this sun,
That rust-red vixens teach their kits to run
Beneath this milk-white angel's frozen glance.

But still I turn my gaze and tread with care
To not disturb the shallow dreamers there.

Current Mood: pleased

I wrote another poem. And since it's my blog, I'm posting it. I can do that.

Recipes

Get up in the dark; an early start.
Lift down the yellow bowl, the big one,
Chipped and sturdy. A big spoon, too;
A kitchen wand to beat the magic up.

Get up in the dark; an early start.
One scoop of rice for each;
Add an extra scoop for luck.

Flour and milk, eggs and yeast.
A mixture learned by heart,
Leavened by hand, lifted by angels
In Mary's praying picture on the wall.

Rinse off the talc and pick
through carefully. Some for Kitchen God,
smiling over the electric cooker.

Mix the dough
until it’s mixed enough, your neck
sucking up chaos like a sponge.
What’s in the bowl is what matters.

Make up boxed lunches for all
Your men, your sleeping men,
Melding the five tastes into one nourishing.

Ring set aside, saved from the stick
Of dough. Knead with naked hands
For these few minutes. One decade
Is enough: the Joyful Mysteries, today.

Spicy cucumbers, tomatoes in sugar,
Fried piquant bok choy, some black
String mushrooms. They need their strength.

The loaves rise towards heaven.

The rice sets up like earth.

I've felt more creative recently. Whether I create anything that people will do anything other than laugh or snicker at -- I don't care, or at least, I'm on the road to not caring.

Here's a poem I wrote yesterday and today.

( Apiary )

398) Reading about the universal themes in myths... came across this sentence.

"A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonder: fabulous forcecs are there encountered and a decisive victory is won: the hero comes back from this mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man." (Joseph Campbell, The Hero With a Thousand Faces, New York: MJF Books, p. 30.)

This truly is a universal theme in myths... and I realized it's one reason the end of the series "Otherland" (by Tad Williams) let me down so much... the heroes (those that survive!) do come back from their amazing, life-changing adventures, and --

-- do nothing. The main bad guy is dead, the evil brotherhood is thwarted. They're now all rich. So they decide to just keep "Otherland" a secret, since various governmental agencies would only ruin it if they knew about it.

Sort of a letdown. No boons to bestow on their fellow humans, no universal truths to impart to all mankind. Instead they just... go back to their lives. Only now they're rich, and they have a fun virtual reality playground that only they can enter.

A happy ending for them, but rather depressing for the rest of humanity.

(Written June 30, 2000)

Dear People,

So summer is finally upon us, leaving us-- most of us, anyway-- with ample time to waste.

I have not been remiss in my duties of wasting time. In fact, I regard wasting time as a form of art. This explains why I have recently read several romance novels.

( Read more... )

Dear people,

So I assume you've all heard the alarming news about the latest advance in cloning technology. First they cloned Dolly the sheep, only it turns out that although she's only two years old, her cells think they're six years old. Dolly will probably die before her time, a victim of confused genes.

Now however they've done something worse... far, far worse. They've cloned immortal cows.

Oh, the media doesn't call them "immortal" cows. The media doesn't want people to start taking the law into their own hands (killing cows they suspect of being tainted, or trying to drink gallons of milk in case it turns out to be a fountain of youth). No, the media merely reports that there's a new batch of freshly cloned cows, over a year old, only (this is the important part) their cells think they're still newborn calves.

This is the problem with cells: Cells are dumb. If given half a chance, your cells will forget everything they ever knew: the dates of the French Revolution, the vice president under Franklin Pierce, the theory behind "supply-side economics," your own name-- everything.

The fact remains that now, scientists have cloned cows, potentially dangerous cows, which have not aged in the past year. Who knows if they'll ever age? We could have undying cows running around, releasing great clouds of methane into the air, chewing up everything into cud-- relentless, unstoppable cows!

No one in the so-called "media" has seen where this is all inevitably going to lead...

(Shot of wide, rolling moors. Desolate wind in background. Camera pans left. Female voice voiceover, vaguely British accent:)

"In other times they bore other names:
Jerseys, Herefords, Limousins, Guernseys, Holsteins, Holy Cows...
In our time they are called the Immortals. They are still with us."

(Camera pans left, past more desolate, rolling moors, and comes to rest on the majestic, silhouetted figure of a cow. Voiceover:)

"I am Duncan MacCow, born over a year ago in a test-tube in the highlands of Scotland. I am Immortal, and I am not alone."

(Cow blinks its big, chocolatey brown eyes, seeming to sense the approach of another, reddish brown cow. The cows stare at each other in a mute challenge, knowing that one of them will be hamburger before the hour is over. Suddenly: The attack!)

(Exciting battle scenes of the cows, armed with ancient katanas, trying to decapitate each other. The haunting dying "Mooo!" of a loser sends goosebumps up one's spine.)

(Voiceover, continuing:)

"For centuries we have waited for the time of the Gathering, when the stroke of a sword and the fall of a head will release the power of the Nestle Quik-ening. In the end, there can be only one."

(Lightning zips about the cow, imbuing it with an otherworldly glow. As if burdened with the weight of a thousand years of sorrow, the cow gazes into the middle distance with gritty pathos. Music ends on a crashing chord.)

(Words on the screen: "The Highlandcow.")

Heaven help us. Heaven help us all.