Linguistic cartwheels in the stylings of a rant, these are the thoughts that keep me up at night.
|
|
| |
|
|
| |
I am a 20 year old female writer residing in Central New Jersey. My influences include the great Dave Barry, Neil Gaiman, George Carlin, and the two greatest editors in the world, Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling. My webpage can be found at www.homestead.com/foxfyresden and I can be reached at Foxfyre33@aol.com. Happy reading!
|
|
|
|
|
|
| |
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
The following is a story written by Fox Mackenzie, and protected under intellectual copyright. It may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in print or digital medium, except with express written permission from its author.
"Tempus Fugit"
I knew, once I stepped outside, something was off. Maybe I didn't
register it, exactly - I was already late and didn't have time to give
over to some heebie-jeebie sensation - but in retrospect, it was
definately there. The feeling of larger-than-life impending doom - the
swell of air and ozone that meant one hell of a storm was on it's way.
I shrugged it off, almost unconsiously - nerves.
The rain hit like a bucket of water, upending over the city and
sending myself and the others scurrying back under a faded hotel
awning. There was a collective sigh of exhasperation, and people began
fumbling for cell phones and PDAs, re-scheduling and canceling until
this damned hurricane of a storm let up. No cab in it's right mind
(which wasn't saying much, really..) would attempt to ford the
now-streaming waters rushing over the streets, picking up fast-food
trash and cigarette butts en route. I knew my own cell was sitting
placidly back on my dresser, where I had forgotten it this morning. At
least one of us was dry.
I turned to go into the hotel lobby and stumbled backward as the
handle didn't give an inch. The others gave me dark glances and
mutters as they held their cells aloft like a bunch of suited Lady
Liberties, trying in vain for signal the storm wasn't skewing.
Tactfully ignoring them, I glanced inside the locked door.
The place looked deserted. About a million years ago. I startled,
glanced again. I knew the hotel district hadn't been doing well and
all, tourism dropping off after the terrorist scares, but how was it
such an opulent (well, once) place was left to rot like this? Broken
chairs strewn about pieces of tables, cobwebs in every corner, the top
of the baby grand rotten and fallen in on its own jaundiced and
cracking-bone keys. Something in me shuddered unthinkingly.
"Creepy."
I turned away from the hotel door, looking at the street again - the
rushing water had turned black from everything it was picking up -
washing out the whole city, probably. I couldn't see the bottom,
though I knew from the curb it couldn't have been more than maybe a
few inches deep. Rain or no rain, I had to get going - without a cab
in sight and no phone, it looked as though I'd be walking.
I leaned down and rolled up my trouser cuffs as high as I could get them around
my calves, and pondered my shoes. I would have prefered not to ruin
them - inexpensive though they were, I wasn't rich - but I was
unwilling to chance stepping into water tainted with with
god-knows-what barefoot. Sighing and reminding myself that slightly
late and sodden was better than not showing up at all, I stepped off
the curb.
My right foot sank into nothingness, and by reflex I grabbed a street
sign and hauled myself backwards, landing hard on the sidewalk.
"Helluva pothole. Jesus."
The cab pulled up slowly as I was checking my now-soaked right foot,
sans sock and shoe. The back right tire seemed like it was exactly
where my foot had encountered the pothole, yet the water only lapped
restlessly about three or four inches up the tire. Must have been
wrong about where I stepped.
The window rolled down and a gaunt black man leaned across the
passenger's side.
"Ey. You need lift, eh?"
He smiled, the brilliant white open smile only men of very dark skin
and very thick accents seem to master, and opened the passenger door
for me.
"Thanks man - what a day...lookit this, lost my damn shoe and
everything. This weather's friggin ridiculous! I didn't think any of
you guys would even attempt to ford this..." I gestured at the flood
in the street.
He smiled that smile again, laughing - an indefinable accent tinging
the edges of his mirth. I hobbled over to the cab, pulled up almost
flush with the curb, and slid into the passenger's side, holding my
naked foot atop my shod one.
He pulled away carefully, and I felt no thump where the pothole should
have been. Maybe it was behind the cab or something.
"I'm glad you picked me up...I am running really late. I can't believe
I cut it this close for something this important..."
"What is that, this so-important thing?"
I opened my mouth to answer, and couldn't for the life of me come up
with even a vague idea. There was the urgency, like a captive bird in
my ribcage, but no clue what it was there for.
"No worry. I take you around, maybe you will see and remember."
My brow furrowed, trying vainly to come up with where the hell I was
intending to go - I kept half an eye out the window, looking up fully
only when I realized the importance of my right shoe. I cursed.
"Oh..god damn it..listen, I am so sorry..I keep my money in one of
those..those..sock-wallet things..I hate it, but it was a christmas
present from my mom, and I promised her..." I waved my hand in the air
furtively, "What I mean is, I don't have any money to pay you.."
"Tch. What you got in your pocket? Lint, candy? I take that, eh? Call
it even!" He laughed, white teeth flashing again.
I smiled uncertainly and dug in my pocket, fingers closing around a
disk. I pulled it out and glanced at the little golden circle in my
palm...one of those new dollar coins, the one with the indian girl on
them. I had also forgotten my commuter's pass on the dresser this
morning; the ticket machines only gave these damn things for change.
My pockets always weighed a ton on pass-less days.
"Well...I got a buck, anyway. Don't suppose that'll get me very far,
huh?" I chuckled.
His hand closed around the coin, and my hand felt terribly light as he
lifted it off my palm. His voice lost it's levity a moment.
"Further than you think, my friend."
(to be continued)
~Fox
8:38 AM
Sunday, May 22, 2005
(Notes) on a napkin, (like) a stain from my mouth,These (ink) smears from my fingertips - Ruin this former blank white (canvas) space;I crumple up my leavings (work) And leave them to slowly drown in my saucerWeakly soaking up my tea (fuel) as if to gainA (literal) life of their very own.
With a sigh, I silently admonish, "You wouldn't last very long out there."
7 am February
You are the warm expectance of french toast on a cold november morningThe rich indulgence of buttered cinnamon toastdipped in milky teaThat singular feeling of a laden breakfast tableon a day-off morningwhen I need no more sleep - The comfort of this worn robeand well-loved slippers,You, my love, are everything.
Honey
Honey-sweet, you call me.Honey.Sweetness dripping from your stamen lipsHot like summer, like JulyMelting down across your Your sticky pistil tongueAnd binding me to youIn translucent amber threads;A loving spider-bee bondage of wordsThat taste so sugary sinfulHoney.
I love it when you look at meAs if I were a spotless canvasAs if you had all the paint on earthAs if I were at the mercies of your whimsAs if you had all the time in the world.
Rotini
Effervescent crystal lava, tumbling captives merrilyTo crash against stainless hulls of steelThe creamy yellow flanks of starchy serpentsLonging to be eaten, twirling in semolina celebrationVain little leaps atop tiny boiling bubblesFalling just short of the Marinara nirvanasimmering coaxingly beside.
Ever After
A chapter after the final pageBlind nightengale sits in a gilded cageA dun colored bird and its warbling dirgeThat shows no cease or age
A chapter after the final phraseAt a tower window, the maiden staysHer hair is shorn, her eyes are worn,And cannot count the days
A chapter after the final wordHis charger's bells no longer heardThe knight rides wearyWith rheumed eyes blearyHis gallant youth all blurred
A chapter after the final verb,An enchanted cauldron moulds, unstirredThe old witch eyeingHer herbs all dyingIn birth-soil all interred.
Eight eyes turning, a painful yearningAs the endless night howls and criesSharpened stars glisten;And celestially listen With a death-rattled silence of sighs -
The book split, openAll loss of hope, thenAnd begins the hellish whineThe imp-child poutingTrembling lips mouthingOh mother! Please read it -
One. More.Time.
Janus - if you look both ways, can you, just once,Look the other way?Call off these wyrd little girlsAnd tell them to stop playing with string(they're liable to hang themselves)
The Ballad of Lactose Intolerance
My stomach is expanding, demanding now of meCessation of consumption of this tiny slice of brie!Barred from taste, I'm longing for a teacup filled with creamO what a waste that ice cream is a mere and distant dream!
Milkshakes, horrid mistakes, As their violent names impliedOh, monster that is munster, what you wreak on my insides!Forgive me, tummy, for this lucious yogurt-laden sinFor I know it's not as pleasant coming out as going in!
Sometimes, I think that I am endingThat I will explode in a single heated momentThat fire will stream from every expressive part of meAnd stars will die on my tongue;The corners of my eyes.I know the truth is nothing;Like ice, pulseless and deadlySometimes, I think that when I'm endingI will simply grow colderAnd very,veryquiet.
(Open scene: Fox is walking down a street in the rain. We do not see her face)
VO: I never understood the relationship people keep with the rain. Water is going to come from the sky,ineviatably. So why buy these prohibitively expansive boots, these outrageously expensive tins and jars and bottles of makeup and hair gels and god knows what else when it's all going to wash off, sooner or later?
(Camera pan to shot of a young overly-made up blonde in UGG lookalike boots,with running mascara, drenched hair, trying in vain to fold her umbrella back convex)
VO: We buy these million-dollar cellular phones, pdas, laptops, what have you; and a little water from the sky reduces us to the most basic of human communication, out of fear they'll get wet.
(UGG girl yells to a friend's car cruising slowly, obviously looking for her. They yell back, they meet up.)
VO: I have a running theory that water is the great equalizer. We all grow in it - and we're only borrowing the water we have at any given time. We're living vessels of water - so scared of a substance that makes up the majority of our body that we seal our own tombs against it.
(Opening theme plays; stylistic and sad-jazz rendition of "rain, rain go away".)
BALSAMIC CHICKEN(GOD’S GIFT TO MORTAL CUISINE)
Balsamic Chicken is the poultry version of Ambrosia – that is to say, in the mythological sense, translating as “Food of the Gods”.If you do not enjoy it, obviously you are a communist.
It features Balsamic Vinegar, Mushrooms, and Chicken in a sauce served over egg noodles, which are also heavily suspected of causing immortality and greatness to all who consume them.. Additionally, this recipe has garlic, onions, pepper, and whatever else is in easy reach on the low shelves of the spice cabinet/fridge.
1.) Get all the icky stuff off the chicken. If you didn’t Start with boneless/skinless, well, then, obviously you have a stronger stomach than I. If you’re doing it right, you should start with about 2 pounds of chicken and end up with roughly half a teaspoon of “chicken”, and 1.98 lbs of “icky”
2.) Pound the living…you know what…out of the chicken with one of those neat little metal mallet thingies.
3.) Realize you need flour. Wash chickeny stuff off hands and get down flour. Stand in kitchen staring blankly at various containers and figuring out how to do this with the least mess. Give up. Coat chicken with flour. If done properly, kitchen should look like a 1970’s party gone a little overboard by the time you are done with the flour.
4.) Realize you don’t have any oil OR Balsamic Vinegar, both of which are sort of crucial. Dig through cabinets, sigh with relief once a plastic bottle of Balsamic Vinaigrette is unearthed. Tactfully ignore the “best by” date. Pour half of it into a saucepan over high heat.
5.) Curse. Turn down heat. Put burn cream on various afflicted portions of oil-burned hands.
6.) Throw the chicken, half a pound of sliced portobella mushrooms and half a diced onion in the sizzling mess. If you are doing this correctly, both the oven hood fan AND the window should be open, out of necessity. When the whole thing turns kind of brownish, put a can of chicken broth in there. Let the thing bubble while you open the noodle bag from the wrong end.
7.) Curse again. Sweep up noodles. Realize you have no more egg noodles. Spend a long moment contemplating the 30 second rule. Use a conglomeration of random elbow, spiral, and lasagna macaroni leftovers from half-empty boxes. Sigh tiredly.
8.) Everything is done. Pour the sauce and chicken over the noodles and serve artfully on mismatched plates after sweeping everything that was on the table into a box.
9.) Stare icily at spouse until he nervously extols the godlike virtues of your cooking, while choking on an overdone mushroom.
The waves crest high on foreign shoresMy father's foot has found;Those ocean tides that pull and roarTo the gentle waves of sounds - To rivers tumbling rapid whiteAnd freezing oceans too
If I should come to your front door;There is no cause for worry - I've a million things to doAnd I'm in an awful hurry.
If I ask you for a dozen things,Not a one of which you've heardAnd rush you when you try to lookPlease, do not be preturbed.
If I roll my eyes when you replyPolitely, in an even toneAbout things you know much more than II've a right to bitch and moan.
I've been in here five minutes nowAnd still I do not see"That" book on scottish wedding vowsFrom nineteen fifty three.
The cover's blue, the author's blackIt's got a dog upon the coverWhat other info do you lack?I'll pester whilst I hover.
When you find it, hours afterI am hardly in your debtI could have found it so much fasterAnd it's cheaper on the net.
And then I'll leave, having delvedInto eighty different sectionsAnd leave you all my books to shelveHaving spurned all my selections
A coffee spill on my way outI'll tactfully ignore,My cell is ringing, my kid is screamingAnd you have to clean the floor.
Gritty, bright - dusty trumpets and wrought-iron quarters;O city who hides her gardens, verdant and lushBehind bricks and metal scrolling,Debutante hiding her charms behind mardi-gras finery -Coy and sultry as an August night.Music and the Mississippi swirl in your wakeGathering lovers to your parti-colored breastAnd laughing till your white teeth show.Dance til dawn, silky shoes in tatters Gris-gris beneath the pillow, cross above the bedYou're wearing masks even as you sleep.
Double-edged sword of memoryUnsheathing to remind, in minor cuts-Of salted wounds bearing The way a former lover used to laughOr slashingSome failure that darkened years,
Would I you had remained unused,That your lefthand blade should rustAnd leave my scars to heal.
There is an island in uncharted watersThat is robustly peopled with thoseWhom I have once cared for-They while away the hours, never a moment olderThough years come and go;They speak only of my beauty,My wit and wisdom - My amazing lover's prowessAnd how terribly stupid they were to give me up.Once a day, as one,They all turn towards the eastTo stare longingly at the seaAnd wait for me to return.
Mall. Rude, slow, loud woman, massive stroller. Huge back-up. Lunatic produces cattle prod, runs. Cheers. No, officer,I'm afraid we all saw nothing.
The silky sift of ashes in a fire
*The Fisherman's Wife*
She caught his elbow at the door,and asked him where he goesHe murmured softly at the floorIn his sailor's clothes
I'm off - to sea, to sea, my loveTo the wide and briny deep, But dunnae fear the sea my loveFor this promise I will keepFor fresh as pearls your youthful skinand yellow as gold your hairI will come back home to youAs fast as you are fair
Where will you be when my body creaksLike weathered ships on fraying linesWhen all the treasures that you seekAre fetched away by time?When these sapphire eyes are cloudedAnd this skin worn dull by brineWhen the gold by grey is shroudedWill you still be mine?
Caught in her like spiderwebs,This memory wound like skeins of silkJeweled with icy drops of glassy-edged starsOn the bottom of dark and silent seas
I breathe the universe at her seashell earI would give you stars, and moons,The swirling voided cosmos and furious novasAnd the thousand things I promisedWhen I spoke with other voices - Sugared rose petals strewn at your feetAs they tread their butterfly stepsAcross this rubied heart.
But this a murmured dream,Hymns and mantras to your alabaster gloryWhich I know and still do not, shall never;Twin-beat of my own restless heartBeating with the pulses of distant suns,Of sliding mercurial silver of our veins - I am making love to myself;Sheaves of barley left aside, green robe slid awayMy heart is pierced, my flesh run throughThis rarest of orchids caged in delicate bars,I dare not breathe upon it!
Siren who breathed life beside me in the cosmos - Born into this void holding hands,Torn asunder by mortal coils,Spiraling ever back, and ever backInto a nameless place of our ownI know you hear these murmursAnd understand the sleeping language of my tongueThese runic words, mystic syllablesA thousand words for beauty,And all sound like our name.
A sister's kiss upon the brow I see reflected in celestial mirrorWith the sight cradled in my arm;Let us braid affections into our hair,And know solitude as a wish only.
The detective winced at the sight under the tarp. Mangled body, suffocated by wrinkled clothes, butchered. Nearby, being handcuffed, a clerk clutched a bloody hanger.
Charon as a Taxi Driver.
Sugar instead of salt for a ritual - witch found dead?
Arthurian Myth set in New jersey.
Poems with titles corresponding to the major arcana?
5:39 PM
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
http://www.babiesonline.com/babies/h/hope2b4/
5:48 PM
Thursday, April 15, 2004
Literature Abuse: America's Hidden Problem
SELF-TEST FOR LITERATURE ABUSERS:
How many of these apply to you?
1. I have read fiction when I was depressed, or to cheer myself up.
2. I have gone on reading binges of an entire book or more in a day.
3. I read rapidly, often 'gulping' chapters.
4. I have sometimes read early in the morning or before work.
5. I have hidden books in different places to sneak a chapter without being
seen.
6. Sometimes I avoid friends or family obligations in order to read novels.
7. Sometimes I re-write film or television dialog as the characters speak.
8. I am unable to enjoy myself with others unless there is a book nearby.
9. At a party, I will often slip off unnoticed to read.
10. Reading has made me seek haunts and companions that I would otherwise
avoid.
11. I have neglected personal hygiene or household chores until I have
finished a novel.
12. I have spent money meant for necessities on books instead.
13. I have attempted to check out more library books than permitted.
14. Most of my friends are heavy fiction readers.
15. I have sometimes passed out from a night of heavy reading.
16. I have suffered 'blackouts' or memory loss from a bout of reading.
17. I have wept, become angry or irrational because of something I read.
18. I have sometimes wished I did not read so much.
19. Sometimes I think my reading is out of control.
If you answered 'yes' to three or more of these questions, you may be a
literature abuser. An affirmative response to five or more indicates a
serious problem.
Once a relatively rare disorder, Literature Abuse, or LA, has risen to new
levels due to the accessibility of higher education and increased college
enrollment since the end of the Second World War. The number of literature
abusers is currently at record levels.
SOCIAL COSTS OF LITERARY ABUSE
Abusers become withdrawn, uninterested in society or normal relationships.
They fantasize, creating alternative worlds to occupy, to the neglect of
friends and family. In severe cases they develop bad posture from reading in
awkward positions or carrying heavy book bags.
In the worst instances, they become cranky reference librarians in small
towns.
Excessive reading during pregnancy is perhaps the number one cause of moral
deformity among the children of English professors, teachers of English and
creative writing. Known as Fetal Fiction Syndrome, this disease also leaves
its victims prone to a lifetime of nearsightedness, daydreaming and
emotional instability.
HEREDITY
Recent Harvard studies have established that heredity plays a considerable
role in determining whether a person will become an abuser of literature.
Most abusers have at least one parent who abused literature, often beginning
at an early age and progressing into adulthood. Many spouses of an abuser
become abusers themselves.
OTHER PREDISPOSING FACTORS
Fathers or mothers who are English teachers, professors, or heavy fiction
readers; parents who do not encourage children to play games, participate in
healthy sports, or watch television in the evening.
PREVENTION
Pre-marital screening and counseling, referral to adoption agencies in order
to break the chain of abuse. English teachers in particular should seek
partners active in other fields. Children should be encouraged to seek
physical activity and to avoid isolation and morbid introspection.
DECLINE AND FALL: THE ENGLISH MAJOR
Within the sordid world of literature abuse, the lowest circle belongs to
those sufferers who have thrown their lives and hopes away to study
literature in our colleges. Parents should look for signs that their
children are taking the wrong path--don't expect your teenager to approach
you and say, "I can't stop reading Spencer." By the time you visit her dorm
room and find the secret stash of the Paris Review, it may already be too
late.
What to do if you suspect your child is becoming an English major:
1. Talk to your child in a loving way. Show your concern. Let her know you
won't abandon her--but that you aren't spending a hundred grand to put her
through Stanford so she can clerk at Waldenbooks, either. But remember that
she may not be able to make a decision without help; perhaps she has just
finished Madame Bovary and is dying of arsenic poisoning.
2. Face the issue: Tell her what you know, and how: "I found this book in
your purse. How long has this been going on?" Ask the hard question: Who is
this Count Vronsky?
3. Show her another way. Move the television set into her room. Introduce
her to frat boys.
4. Do what you have to do. Tear up her library card. Make her stop signing
her letters as 'Emma.' Force her to take a math class, or minor in Spanish.
Transfer her to a Florida college. You may be dealing with a
life-threatening problem if one or more of the following applies:
- She can tell you how and when Thomas Chatterton died.
- She names one or more of her cats after a Romantic poet.
- Next to her bed is a picture of: Lord Byron, Virginia Woolf, Faulkner, or
any scene from the Lake District.
Most importantly, remember, you are not alone. To seek help for yourself or
someone you love, contact the nearest chapter of the American Literature
Abuse Society, or look under ALAS in your telephone directory
Copyright: Dr. Janet Wright Starner, Director of the
Writing Center & Assistant Professor of
English, Wilkes University
7:19 AM
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
http://www.evcforum.net/ubb/Forum14/HTML/000245.html
12:02 PM
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
There are many different types of classic Hollywood films - comedies, romances, actions, dramas and suspenses among them. In most, if not all of these different types of films the actors are usually cast to follow a gender-specific set of guidelines. However, as with life, and society, guidelines very seldom remain unchanged.
Movies are and always will be a form of entertainment for the masses - a fun way to 'escape' life by following the fictional adventures of other people. In times of uncertainty - be it through war or social movements, sometimes movies can't help but reflect the changing values and ideas of a country, and also sometimes can't help influencing them one way or the other.
Increasingly, the news has been filled with the latest updates, no matter how small, in the struggle to legalize gay marriage, a topic so controversial that the president himself is risking alienating voters by speaking out against it. The reason our society has recoiled at the thought of two men or women living as a couple is that it isn't 'right', that the two don't follow the gender 'rules' our society has come to expect of its people, and that marriage means only man and woman. Looking to the movies and television, we see talk shows hosted by known lesbians Ellen Degeneres and Rosie O' Donnell, hit movies like "Chasing Amy" and "If These Walls Could Talk" and the advertising community reaching out to the gay and lesbian demographic more than ever. Even syndicated T.V. not only breaking gender roles, but, through programming, arguing who can do it better - "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" battling it out with "Straight Plan for the Gay Man" The tough guide lines that most if not all of these classic Hollywood films followed are those of how men and women should act and carry themselves. Men are suppose to be that fearless protector, the rugged knight in shining armor. Females, on the other hand, are shown as the total opposite; they are to be delicate, soft creatures that are supposed to let men take care of them.
11:55 AM
Thursday, October 30, 2003
I returned last night to a place I had never been to, but knew far too well.
It was cold, and the natural night darkness shattered by harsh white lights -
This empty space, this barren place reminds me
Of nothing so much as road work on some 3am morning
And on the steel girder fences hang the signs-
Historical, informational, an outdoor museum, once removed -
And with intellectual indifference, the burgundy on sepia informs me
Of everything I already know, and don't care to know again.
In the center of the cement circus, a single girder looms -
A cross in iron - ancient ward against fairie magics;
And I am unsettled by it - what of other faiths, here?
The wind picks up and howls it's chill across the void -
I gather my coat to me and cling tighter to my companions arm.
I breathe deeply, and the hurt swallows my lungs.
I am breathing the dust of the dead.
I look up and see the lights blur into sad impressionism-
From this impression on me.
And I realize I am crying.
Not because I am patriotic.
Not because I lost someone.
Not because I am angry.
Simply because I am human, and this is too much to bear.
And others walk around me, this midnight, pointing at signs and picture-taking,
And I want to shriek and fly at them, even in my grief.
I hate these fences, and I hate these people -
Walking, talking, as if this were tourism
And I realize that I am the only one crying here.
I never stopped grieving for the people I never knew.
Until tonight, I never knew I started.
Two years slid by while I kept on living, and I start with guilt -
I am cold, and crying, and I just want to leave...
I want to let it become a national cause again
And not my own personal grief.
My tears are fresh with guilt, for wanting to fly from here,
For wanting to put this scene at my back
And run until my lungs ache
From breathing the dust of the dead.
8:33 AM
|
|
| |
|
|
|
