Monday, November 22, 2010

Mundane Monday

My dearest Scribbles, I think we need a little pick me up on this fine Monday afternoon. My dear friend, Sondra, sent me a link to the most unintentionally funny thing I've read in a long time.

Go ahead. Read it. I know the print is small, but do your best to read it. I'll wait.

You done? Ok.

It's hilarious because it is serious. Now, I titter every time someone claims to have a manifesto in the first place, simply because they all think they're the next Marx, but they're all wholly ridiculous. This one may just take the cake.

When I think about this, my mind conjures the best mental image in the history of mental images: a haute couture snob wearing a rainbow feathered hat, a three bracelets made of raw bacon, a gold corset, neon green hot pants with black fishnet leggings, a superhero mask, purple lipstick, one blue sparkly high heel, and a black and pink converse high heel boot* running around Stockholm with a razor knife and a pair of scissors, hunting down people wearing jeans and t-shirts to hack and slash at their clothing, all the while shouting about how her victims have no identity and must be destroyed. It is fantastically hilarious.

Are you smiling? If so, you're welcome. If not, then you're reading the wrong blog.


*Seriously, if any of my artistically inclined friends could draw this, I would love you forever, and even use the image here and on my facebook as my profile picture.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Gentle Reminders

Thought for your Saturday, Scribblers:

The New Colossus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

--Emma Lazaraus, American poet 1849-1887

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Litany Mimic

So, at the behest of my friend Randall, I am posting my Litany* mimic assignment, which was done for my Structure of English class. So, basically you all get to suffer for Randall's amusement.

Litany Mimic

You are the pen and the paper,

the wet ink and the words.

You are the snap of Highland snare

and the droning hum of the pipes.

You are the slate stone of the path,

and the desert fox silently at night.


However, you are not the string of the violin,

the wine in the cask,

or the stack of books.

And you are certainly not the brisk chill in the wind.

There is just no way you are the brisk chill in the wind.


It is possible that you are the cards on the table,

maybe even the fob on the gentleman's watch,

but you are not even close

to being the meadow of dandelions in mid-afternoon.



And a sharp reflection in the pond will show

that you are neither the wood in the pile

nor the fir tree stoic in its grove.


It might interest you to know,

speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,

that I am scent of the leaves in the air.


I also happen to be the billowing smoke,

the casual conversations heard all across the room,

and keferloher of ale waiting on the bar.


I am also the bread in the hand

and the working man's soft sigh.

But don't worry, I'm not the pen and the paper.

You are still the pen and the paper.

You will always be the pen and the paper,

not to mention the wet ink and –somehow—the words.




*The original Litany was written by poet Billy Collins. Google it, or check it out here.