http://search.deviantart.com/?q=by:SaporousSerenade&section=today deviantART RSS for by:SaporousSerenade en-us Copyright 2009, deviantART.com Fri, 18 Dec 2009 22:24:03 PST deviantART.com http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss http://s.deviantart.com/minish/widgets/apple-touch-icon-precomposed.png http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/26884442/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/26884442/ Fri, 28 Aug 2009 21:02:41 PDT
Another excuse to avoid the fleshy kind of people came when I discovered goodreads in my foolishly planned 2 hour period between classes. I'm sure it's nowhere near new--it's incredibly developed! It's a site where you can post reviews on books, read other people's reviews, mindlessly indulge on trivia of books you've probably never read, slam your palm into your forehead when you see the global ratings of some books, and share quotes from various authors--although not from their prose/poetry, oddly; people like to be told how to live after all. I'm sure there's actually some kind of person-to-person interaction at some point, but golly I'm having fun just finally having a place to pontificate about how overrated Twilight and Harry Potter are while I suckle on Oscar Wilde's flamboyant moobs... For some reason I have a feeling that statement will be taken more seriously, or perhaps just more disturbingly, than I intended.

But seriously, their database is huge. For example, I was going to put in a quote from Goethe's Faust and, as I clicked to search for the title, there were dozens of titles from Goethe's letters and plays and just all variety of literary accomplishments. I'd recommend it to anyone who casually or seriously enjoys literature. Even though there are people who have fifteen of my lifetimes worth of books read, it was uplifting to discover that I'm not as illiterate as I'd thought.

I'll try to get some more updating done after I finish the busy work that my classes have me doing. Until then, here I am on goodreads [link] and if you have a facebook, just do a search for Doug Schmierer, because I have no clue how to link a facebook

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/26554715/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/26554715/ Wed, 12 Aug 2009 18:33:22 PDT
Anyway, I've been drinking coffee for quite some time now. I should say that it's not the coffee that I'm addicted to, it's more the coffee shops. I can't really focus at home. If it's anything requiring real ingenuity or creativity, the familiarity of home gets to me, like I can't turn off the memory engine of my brain. As I said, Ishould say it's not the coffee I'm addicted to, but of course my body would disagree.

I never knew caffeine to be so demanding a drug. Sometimes, when I sleep in, my body has already decided to punish me for missing caffeine when I wake, which means a migraine caused by the increased levels of adenosine causing blood in the head to swell. This comes complete with nausea and even some tinkering of the emotions. Then, because the body can't just be told to stop, even when there's caffeine on the way, another unsavoury reaction happens when you've tried in vain to get the caffeine in your system that will stop your headache. The blood vessels slowly shrink and begin redistributing with the help of caffeine, but now there's the matter of increased adenosine coexisting with caffeine so that it feels like a caffeine overdose. The muscles tighten, the nerves twitch with restlessness, and sometimes the result is that you traded a headache for muscle aches.

Maybe there's a metaphor in this, or maybe I'm reluctant and so I'm delaying the admission. My true feeling of restlessness right now is a fear of stagnancy. I have never really needed a reason to run from complacency; when I was younger, I used to always try to make myself the best possible person to be loved. That's all I really cared about: falling in love with a Jasmine, an Ariel, or any princess incarnation, really, because I would be the rightful prince. But I guess at some point I had to realize nobody is that simple--I wasn't even that simple, much as it sucked to admit.

Competition kept me going. With my divine ambition gone I wanted merely a noble one to replace it, or even a great one. I wanted to beat my old self for being so disappointing--discardable. That's why I started writing again. Before leaving for New York for my culinary degree, my mom said to me that my move didn't make sense, she said that I used to love writing so much, I think she used to imagine I'd be a journalist like her father. I don't know when I thought I would be satisfied--or, I guess I should say I knew there would be no satisfying me because of the standard I set. I wanted to hear something that would never be admitted. God I wanted so bad to have every one of the devastating moments in my mind. Mostly revenge.

But here I am again. The desires for which I wrote aren't gone or finished in any way, (they were unattainable, remember?) however people are becoming worried about me. Hell, I'm becoming worried for me. And I shouldn't do myself the injustice to say I wrote only for revenge. My style is inspired by the same majesty and power of word that I hope to revive or else sustain within literarystasis for someone else.

I've been disappeared this last month as I search for something. I guess you could even say I've been searching for it longer than that. This thing I can compare to the sense of urgency which the restaurant industry uses, but it needs be more than a sense and it needs to be an urgency foremost. An urgency to act. More than that, even, a lust for activity. The thing I don't like about this is that it feels like I'm trying to find a reason to live. But if stagnancy is as morbid as I feel, I suppose the exchange is appropriate. It is a bad omen, then, that friend nor family understand a word of my work.


You can’t, if you can’t feel it, if it never
Rises from the soul, and sways
The heart of every single hearer,
With deepest power, in simple ways.
You’ll sit forever, gluing things together,
Cooking up a stew from other’s scraps,
Blowing on a miserable fire,
Made from your heap of dying ash.
Let apes and children praise your art,
If their admiration’s to your taste,
But you’ll never speak from heart to heart,
Unless it rises up from your heart’s space.

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/26450418/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/26450418/ Fri, 07 Aug 2009 17:59:31 PDT [link]
It has the girl who played Wendy in Peter Pan as Sibyl Vane and Stardust's Dunstan plays Dorian Gray! From the trailer I've seen, it doesn't look like they try for a verbatim rendition, but my god they do the aesthetic movement justice. Beautiful people surrounded by beautiful colours and amazing lighting...
/swoon

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/25879555/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/25879555/ Sat, 11 Jul 2009 12:27:34 PDT
Have you ever had deja vu? ever tell a story to friends or family only to hear, "dude, that wasn't how it happened," in response? Cognitive lapses or errors in memory layering are not uncommon in healthy brains. Have you ever feared, or noticed, something more severe than simple forgetfulness? Like, say, if the memories you have with someone had been perceived twice but kept only the latest modal residue.

Imagine that, once, these memories were perceived in the present tense. You know you can trust the present tense--you can look around you at any calm enough moment and, for a period of some ten seconds, you can sample of every sense; you may breathe in scent, you may observe the detail of every thing natural and temporarily naturalized--you can taste what you choose no matter how disgusting or poisonous (though that would make recollection a little difficult.) Most importantly, you can remember how you feel at that moment, even if you can't put a name to it. Ever smelled something like a shirt your mother hasn't worn in years and remember smelling that same shirt with that same laundry detergent and motherly scent and then feeling, suddenly, maybe only momentarily, the same security and humbled love you felt when last you smelled that shirt?

But, let's move back an example. Imagine that, for the second time of perceiving this person's memory, it had been rewritten. Unconsciously, some time throughout the years, you had taken a moment to recall a memory--the memory of a distant lover, to stick with the first example because I don't want to taint the memory of my mommy's sweatshirt! Suppose you were angry one day, and something reminded you of something your old lover used to do; or worse, imagine you were frustrated at a failed relationship and recalled this ex to think how she would have handled this better or this would be better if she were here and bam. Instant deification. Well, I suppose you'd have to be a mindless romantic, reserving that section of your mind where some people place their gods or their worldly ambitions for finding love, but perhaps those people are not so different? do they not get fixated with fanatacism or, in the low of this bipolar relationship, the extreme lethargy of being failed?

The point is, what was once a standard relationship between you and a memory of this person has taken from everything you wanted it to be, and suddenly life you recall life as once being different. You used to be witty, or at least your wit came so much easier. You could juggle your endeavours with one hand because that person was part of your life; you could ___insert miracle here___, because that person was part of your life. But, if you were popping out miracles like sangria jello shooters from your belly button, wouldn't that person have stayed with you? Ah, reality. Ah, reason.

Here's the pointed point: can you trust your own mind? What if you couldn't take every memory for granted and couldn't rely on your own intuitions or your own judgements because the mind you harbour has, at any time, changed the modal imbuement of your past? What if it you lie in bed one morning and think about the girl at Starbucks for whom you wrote a poem: how she could lie beside you right there and you would both trade your flirts before kissing--the different scenarios in which you could flirt before that kiss. You imagine going out with her, and imagine what you would say outside the restaurant afterwards to steal more time with her, getting closer to intimacy. Your eyes are closed the entire time, and you shake out of the trance as though waking. It feels like memory, not imagination.

That represents what I feel right now, and what I fear. My nerves are pricked to the point of oversensitivity and are put on a crawl across the desert of fiery anxiety. The project I've been working on for the past three years, although it still awaits the approval of one of my editors and will still receive my OCD tinkering to the moment until I receive response, is finished. It has gone through about six solid revisions and, beyond that, an uncountable amount of touch ups and singular chapter rewrites. And, even though it would be nowhere near what it is right now without the help of friends--very good, loved friends to whom I owe more than just their best approaches of professionalism--I at uneased. I have doubts, and those doubts have turned to my friends. What if they are talking from their critical mouth but have mixed suit with their friendly tongue?

When it was in its earliest developments, I had friends crit... ]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/25646390/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/25646390/ Tue, 30 Jun 2009 08:30:49 PDT Twilight by Stephanie Meyer? Ever seen the movie? It is one of the most popular tales of our age and has been made into a major motion picture which is responsible for, unfortunately, as Harry Potter was before it, interesting millions of people in reading again. Stephanie Meyer is quoted as saying the idea "came to her in a dream" and has a romance "inspired by music of artists like those in her movie."

The Twilight saga is a series of three books following the young romance of a feminine protagonist named Bella Swan and a mysterious boy from her school named Edward Cullen. Bella is a clumsy girl with nothing really out of the ordinary to her and Edward is a vampire with the ability to read minds--all minds, that is, except Bella's; a characteristic which sparked his romantic interest. The plot of the first book involves mostly a feud between two vampire clans: the Cullens and a traveling pack who have been feeding on humans; connecting the vampire and the human plots together as Bella's dad is a Sheriff. Twilight was published in 2005.

The Southern Vampire Mysteries is a series written by Charlaine Harris. The first book, Dead Until Dark, was published in 2001. Dead Until Dark introduces a female protagonist* named Sookie Stackhouse. Sookie is a waitress working at a restaurant in an Earth where vampires have since revealed their presence to the rest of the world, assured that the synthetically produced blood, "True Blood," will provide mortals the peace of mind which will allow their acceptance. Although she goes about her days as any other human, she has the ability to read minds*. One day a vampire named Bill Compton comes into her restaurant and Sookie finds herself enamoured by this man's unique characteristic that she is unable to read his mind*. The plot develops as most mysteries, with several murders happening and a new vampire in town being placed as the prime suspect. Human and vampire plots intertwine constantly as Sookie's brother is being accused of killing someone after their sex tape is released, showing him strangle her and further, when Sookie is exposed to the vampire heirarchy/underground and meets with the vampire sheriff*.

I restrain myself from ranting on Stephanie Meyer only because I hold my own beliefs about plagiarism. I decided from Shakespeare that the best display of an idea deserves the best and fondest of remembrances; I simply couldn't get into the Twilight series or its vampire mythology. Stephanie Meyer never was a good writer, even with borrowed ideas.

If you haven't seen True Blood, I recommend it. Find a place to download it or watch it online. They define the telepathy so much better than the movie, Twilight, did and they don't contradict their fighting or their romance by pulling punches. If you're into vampires, you'll love it. And if you aren't, you might start to be.



"Um, well, bitten by radioactive spider?"
"That's not very creative."...
"no spiders?"
"nope."
"and no radioactivity?"
"none."
"dang."
"kryptonite doesn't bother me either."


Can you turn into a bat?
No. There are those who can change form, but I'm not one of them.
Can you levitate?
No.
Turn invisible?
Sorry.
Well Bill, you don't seem like a very good vampire. What can you do?
I can bring you back to life.

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/24993859/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/24993859/ Thu, 28 May 2009 08:51:51 PDT you created alongside the other. And you'd snuff it if you thought about it, because this person who was apparently good enough for your time is suddenly intolerable, readily replaceable at the dim, unfamiliar and tepid fire of a spark. You are a sadness, to me.
On to the boring.

Whelp, as usual my attendance knocked my A's down to B's, except Critical Thinking, which would be surprising for the long paragraph of his syllabus defining his loath for absences except for the other fact that at the end of the year he referenced me and my philosophical rival as his "two shining stars." Ha. On the plus side, I somehow went the entire semester without learning any of my professors' names.

Speaking of philosophy, I friggin' nailed the presentation at the end of the year. We were given the freedom to do anything we wanted, so long as it was either relevent to critical thinking or else introduced something at which the class could respond using critical thinking. Apparently the safe idea was to group up and play a youtube video of a modern educator's thesis. One guy even did Jackson Pollock with this video [link] while reading directly from his wiki page ...yick.

Anyway, I did mine on a fallacy which I believe my own teacher created, titled the oppositional fallacy. This fallacy is the use of an idea's opposites as counterargument, because nothing truly has an opposite. Our 'opposites' are often the absence of one quality or else the aforementioned fallacy in definition (an example: what is the opposite of a boy? or more specifically the opposite of a tall, black haired, thirty year-old boy? The opposite of a table?) He stated this at the beginning of the year, citing a rough definition of Plato's understanding of opposites. Yes, this is where the gloves came off. No one writes off Plato like one would an uppity college student, using him as little more than a punchline between sips of coke! Where was I? ah yes, uppity college student--so from that point on I ranted to my philosophical rival via e-mail, which was very good for my presentation later, as it allowed me to collect the linguistic side of my argument: opposites, or antonyms as they're called in language, are crucial to literature. Contradictions through words of emotive opposition are used in contemporary poetry especially to display perspective in one line instead of ten.

Furthermore, I actually remembered a text where Plato used opposites and, sure enough, in "Phaedo" he very nearly defines opposition as not being inclusive of all ideas, using a loophole of something like "...of their opposite, where an opposite exists." But, because I'm prattling on far too much already, it pretty much ended with attacking the fallacy with another one: the fallacy of false dilemma. False dilemma already prevents the use of creating a singular alternative to choice, so anyone who tried to crack an argument by the means he mentioned would already be falsifying language. I'm glad I could not only avoid the neo-philosophical topics but I am also happy I could attempt to disprove my doctor-instructor

My god this is shamelessly vain, but there should be a website where people can share their college essays. I'm a fucking intellectual beast when I have a reason.

Also on the topic of philosophy, the highlight of my month happened just last night. My brother and I were talking about the usual science vs theism shit and he, on the side of strict empiricism as usual, offered the works of one scientist researching a selfishness gene (long story, but basically one of our other discussions was how we would have survived if we were selfless people.) He justified the book as being better than the 'regular philosophers' because he had logical proof via experimentation/scientific method of retesting--a little better than mere theory.

I said, "Wouldn't it still be theory? Just the other day you said that all science of complexity is theory, because the thoroughness of research is not... ]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/24787970/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/24787970/ Sat, 16 May 2009 13:45:23 PDT
I can't understand it. When I woke up, stupidly expecting those feelings which accompany the first days of summer break, this was close to the last thing I would have suspected for a variable. He was so healthy for a husky his age. I figured it would go away over night. I looked for him at his small cot but even his cot wasn't there. I walked up to my mom, who was at the sink scrubbing his bowl and asked, "How's Smokey?" I didn't even realize she had been crying until she spoke, and her words could barely be registered by how much of her bottom lip had been in them. "He's dead." My brother, who I have always suspected to be even more of an emotionally depraved robot than me, appeared behind and was crying too. I couldn't cry. I hugged my mom, for her sake, and I sat down to talk to my brother about how it happened, but nothing came--nothing overcame me the way it did for them. I struggled to think about how he would prance alongside us in the kitchen and howl playfully for food or else to get us into the backyard with him, just for a few sympathy tears.

Even now, I can spare some of myself for him, in public at that, but I can't be taken by that... state of grief. I can't understand it. I loved him, I had stronger feelings for him than I do about most people; he was a member of the family in my eyes (a giant middle finger at this point to anyone who thinks animals don't have souls if people do) but why should my personal association change how I understand death? its physical and its metaphysical theories? I will put action and words to my respects tonight and perhaps something will then come. But, I worry if this is how I will act when and if I survive a human family member.

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/24201407/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/24201407/ Sun, 12 Apr 2009 12:58:56 PDT the conscience, since that's always at work and would never 'dream' of turning against the mind, but indeed it would be appropriate to faction the section against your conscious thought, wouldn't it? It is dissonant.

Recently I've been attempting to force some introspection of sorts. I have always been under the belief that 'change' is something applicable to people. I never questioned it because change is sooo obvious, right? There are addicts who stop, there are relationships that end (oh god there are a lot) and there are people who simply put themselves into a certain emotional state, and they'll assume that emotion so well that they could not possibly take on another; a sad highschool kid moving on to college who suddenly realizes red, green, and blue do not always come combined.

But there are no cures, are there? The twelve step program of addiction never truly ends, because even after giving your self-control and confidence to a higher power, you come back thirty years later as: "I'm ____ and I've been an addict for thirty years, but I've been clean." Depression, unless medical, is syndrome. It's a result of something terrible for which the person needs time. As for relationships, I think this would be a great time to come to the conclusion: people can only pretend. The statement I think is self explanatory, so I'll skip once more to the induction: does it matter?

A person can pretend they are not an addict, while every time they pass a... gambling machine, they salivate. What if this is not addiction, but temptation? It's the same thing everyone else resists because the risks outweigh the benefits, the only difference is that "addicts" find enjoyment in the impulsion, seeking to duplicate the thrill until they find it again which becomes the infinite compulsion. It doesn't matter if they pretend to be out of control or pretend to need addiction, just like it doesn't matter if a person pretends anything else titulary. What the mind convinces itself of, the body can make real.

So can it be called change? I suppose it's semantics at this point, the argument is made. If people change, it's not enough to matter--the smallest movements of alignment. Who a person is will always be, to most extents, predetermined by the events leading up until the day they are no longer capable of learning, or no longer wish to.

I must have happened upon some strange, self-induced psychosis because I became scared. It was in the coffee shop and there were two groups of people sitting nearby as well as one couple; their associations made me realize I had been out of any form of pack pretty much since high school, four years ago, and I am alone in terms of an intimate relationship. But it wasn't really loneliness I was afraid of. Even before high school ended I had an idea of every rationalization a person gives for meeting new people; it made me want to be more honest about my friendships and my public interactions in general. I have avoided almost all forms of the 'social contract' out of choice--and that was what got me.

To get back into the firmament issue: I have always considered myself an empath. I was raised by two parents who went to Woodstock and have a compost in their backyard; politics aside, their morals are always that people deserve your blind and unconditional aid. Regardless of who I am in the present or who I will be in the future, I am forever at the mercy of what they put into my mind and I think that who I am now seems very cold and nonsensically rational to the bottom of my skull. The ideals of a child are obviously too pure to be applied alongside the knowledge of an adult--I... think--but there exists a voice in me I must address, because I think the worst it could do to me now would be to go away.

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/23822942/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/23822942/ Sat, 21 Mar 2009 22:43:36 PDT
To me, education is closest compared to Plato's forms--a concept of purity and a simplicity of motive: the mind seeking truth. Truth, in this case, is the why and the how behind action. History makes itself an exception to this. It contains the how but, as any good history teacher will tell you, we may never know the 'why' to a past decision; the difficulty is the human element, provable by how we struggle as is to separate fallacy from fact in a present day. I digress. If education truly is the mind seeking truth, there are plenty of empirical/pragmatic truths to be taught as well as metaphysical theory to 'move forward' upon.

But some ideals go entirely against this. Aside from grade school, which teaches children in their most limber age that Columbus discovered America and the Pilgrims got right off their boat for a Thanksgiving feast with the welcoming natives. Aside from the Catholic schools which... are Catholic schools (not to imply offense at all, the list of geniuses that come from Catholic schools is greater than most.) Aside from all stubbournness for the sake of stubbournness, there is a lack of philosophy in mainstream education.

(I think) Being exposed to philosophy helps a person remain humble, introspective, and possibly 'sharp' or at least 'aware' in a sense of wit. It is the posture of the mind. Some people get their philosophy from novels, but that's another argument for... about three paragraphs down. In Europe, the course is in their high school curriculum. Without philosophy in high school, our youth are entering college without understanding of 'fallacy' and without self-guidance, self-thought. And more, philosophy itself seems to have mutated.

I can't say this is the source, or even a facet of the problem, but it will provide some hopefully humourous ranting
Like I said, I'm not championing this shit yet.

What has modern philosophy has regressed to? the diction and syntax of sentence composition. Not to mislead: it is a practice I love--but how the fucking blank is this philosophy? I well know there are many fields and faces to philosophy. Since the pre-Socrates, a philosopher could be little more than a man who asked questions in the agora; the title itself means mearly 'love of wisdom' in Greek. But how is linguistic development a concern of philosophers? The purpose of a college critical thinking course, at least where I live, is identifying patterns in lying.
You wanna know when a person is lying? It's when they're not telling the truth... or when their weight is being distributed on a bias across on their back. See what I did there?!

On to reading, what could/should be the food for philosophy. Go to a bookstore and look around you. Here is the result of our fast-food (though I despise the cliche) education; the avid and "intelligent" reader can casually go through 2-3 full novels in a week, the favoured book among adults and young-adults is a Harry Potter book... I won't say anything on Harry Potter, because that's really a topic of preference and no matter how lowly I think of her or how she has set back literature as an art, I've digressed far too much already to go off on a slam-tangent about how she has the literary competence of an internet gamer, who thinks caps lock is the wonderbutton of all heightened expressions.

No, here is my real worry. People who boast themselves as 'well-read,' who show that they in fact have the critical eye for literature in school and sometimes among friends; these intellectuals go through books like dime novels. They are actually surprised when later they cannot recognize a friend retelling a certain part of a book they read, and some actually dare to pontificate that the two hundred books under their belt has somehow made them better people. Still, what is the cause? We are forever students of this life--forever philosophers--what is the 'why?'

There are two possible causes for this expedience, as I recognize it; either the novel has no vertical movement (aka deeper meaning) like a novel of the Harry Potter series, or the reader is so used to/tired of looking for the vertical movement, they only care about moving horizontally--getting on to their next sprint. Let's say the author puts out three major themes, each of them with the capability of helping the reader to find the other, because no author can expect every reader to find a s... ]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/23739783/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/23739783/ Tue, 17 Mar 2009 00:42:53 PDT
I'm in Voorhees, New Jersey right now. I'm staying with someone who has been my very good friend since I was 15, who only recently moved over here, James. My god, I've missed this guy
I'm still not in a good spot to make a real journal, but I'll do what I can until he and his girlfriend stop talking so I know when its bed time.

The East coast is amazing. I feel creative just being in this state (I'm sure it could also have something to do with the fact that I haven't written anything in a week; ) its people are so different, with James assisting as my medium for comparison and its humidity is just familiar enough to me that I can reminisce a bit when we leave the apartment to some light rain. It's a much-missed mix of comfort and exclusion.

We're going to go to Philly tomorrow for Saint Patricks Day, which will hopefully be my last day of drinking for a while. I'm ashamed to say that, although it has been done in moderation and in good company, all of this alcohol is kicking my ass. Luckily James is a bartender and most of the beers he likes are the kind that are actually enjoyed, not funneled!

He won't let me visit South Orange, which kind of sucks, but as I said there are memories afoot regardless. This land is like a cemetery for all its ghosts.

And this movie has got to be one of my all-time favourites. But alas, bed time.

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/23652805/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/23652805/ Wed, 11 Mar 2009 23:23:20 PDT
Alright, so day one when we got here was kind of meh. The nearly continuous travel over the course of nearly two full days left me in a state of exhaustion which I can only assume led to my current cold >_<
The 7 bedrooms are all bigger than mine at home, there are two kitchens (though only one has a fridge??) and several rooms with fireplaces and/or tables to chat at. The dock, which has a boat shed of its own, was frozen over from the winter and solid enough to walk on. I tested. The entire river was frozen until a distant bridge where boats sometimes passed. The weather was expected. I don't think anyone thought that river was going anywhere until a good month or so.

Today was pretty sweet. We got to see the ice melt and break apart, floating downstream in a sunny day which left an equally memorable reflection on the callow waters. Probably a full square mile of ice, long awaited through the long Canadian winter melted and floated away before me--I know this is nothing special to a lot of people, especially anyone living nearby here, but holy shit that's cool to me. I mean, I was walking on that water not three days ago. Now, at night, there's a full moon that consumes all the water before our house with its glow. I love seeing different areas of the world.

Activities? I'll have to go into that another time. But I gotta say I love being with these guys.

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/23550170/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/23550170/ Fri, 06 Mar 2009 00:33:37 PST
Well, I'll probably be afk for the next 12 days. In case of the worst, chances are I <3 you if you're reading this. Here's to journeys; cheers.

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/23451924/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/23451924/ Sat, 28 Feb 2009 13:40:19 PST _<

I miss this. Stepping outside before the dawn of an early spring day and seeing a moon so full it will fight the twilight has been a constant joy in my life since studying the old mythos. Surely, it was a source of fascination before; the days in middle school and high school that I was foolish enough to stay up through the night and see the desert landscape caked in purple; but the moon has so much more meaning when there is a name for Her, or two, or three.

I wonder if I will always have this in my life. If I will love the mornings of spring and summer and even the beginning of fall and if will allow the winter its respects in a bundle of warmth as it too dazzles me, or if the seasons will eventually blend. If even one year's time can depreciate, then cannot the seasons of that year be unnoticed? will they no longer be seasons, to me? I fear that the morning will some day just be the morning, and that the time when the annuals begin germinating will be only good gardening.

"You think too much."
I have been told this by more people than I care to quantify, but most often the words have been from the mouth of a lover. Originally I took this as a compliment--ironically not thinking about the expressions of which the statement might imply. But what if it were a warning? You think too much, and so you seldom act? You think too much, and so the beauty around is passing you by? After introspection, I think I prove omitted from both. But there is still that feeling of warning; intuitive, instinctual.

Someone whose opinion (regardless of how it reaches me) I have always cared too much for and whose words I will always think too much into, told me just recently that they will laugh piteously at the people who are too scared to change.

On Friday of this week I leave for a trip to Canada with several friends where I will, though the decision comes with much moral objection, do something I have not yet done in my life and I will do it for little sake else than to be a student of sensation. It troubles me, because despite the implications it has on my figurative mind and the ideals of the self, I am resigned to do this to have one more argument against people when they say: "You don't know what it's like, you've never done it before," or something of the like. It is sad, because if it were not done for the sake of argument it would be shamefully and undeniably labeled peer pressure. And ok, I admit that my body definitely would not mind doing it, either.

It gets to me, though. I almost wish I could say it is because of one of my many archaic loyalties to someone, if only to escape greater pity, but I know the cause is a form of mysticism. Even though it has always been a personal mysticism, I wonder if, five years ago, I would have freely given divinities to anyone whom I didn't truly love.



P.S. If there is anyone here who can actually understand my ambiguities, private and spiritual, in the sense they are meant to be understood: you are the fucking man!

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/22366546/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/22366546/ Sat, 03 Jan 2009 02:35:29 PST _<

Now for the rattling blow. I have always found Greek mythology to be one of Man’s most beautiful periods. To avoid going off on a tangent, it is admirable in every aesthetic, perfectionist, and logical aspect, to me. I love Athena especially, because I have always been praised for a thirsting knowledge and too because she is, in many ways, most strong and rounded among gods and goddesses. That she will polymorph a seamstress forever into a spider’s body for hubris cannot even start the creases of a frown (the ‘why’ of which I’ll say a little bit later.) But she’s a liar, or at least has been interpreted as such.

In The Iliad she deceives Hector himself by leading the man to believe she is one of his many brothers, ready to fight beside him with Achilles, the event which quickly leads to Hector’s death and the doom of Troy without their Champion of Men. A hero, and his entire people, destroyed on her deception. In The Odyssey there is detail to Pallas Athena’s lying. She uses her guile to provoke Telemechus to his own heroism, as well as testing Odysseus’ wits. Acceptable uses in any heroic.

I think it was something unread – something my instructor said, that leads me to this. When discussing the relationship between Odysseus and Athena, she referenced several points in the epic by which both characters would lie to each other for no apparent reason, usually while unknowingly disguised; the point of this being perhaps to test or demonstrate the mental agility of mortals. But still I struggle.

Although the affairs of mortals are believed to be nigh nothing to the gods, and I respect the message that virtue/arete should be an exercise year-round (one fitness without strain or exhaustion) because a god’s decision is seldom consolable or undone when punishment is meted; it seems so out of character. Though she is clever, she is also wise. Should she not have the essence of honour and empathy for intellect I could only hope to have grown up on? If education’s aim is to always teach the truth and how the truth was uncovered, shouldn’t the act of falsifying be an affront against man’s purest wisdoms? an affront against Athena? The corruption of intellect for the sake of one’s entertainment is petty enough, but what about for personal gain?

This is where it gets incredibly gray for me. If I could use the excuse of measuring the excuse of someone every time I lied, then I could use that for more than the simple lies of story-weaving. I could make a better story – I could trick people into thinking I work for a charity, taking their money. I could feed someone hemlock, saying it was parsley, and take their life from them. Where does testing end? This is kind of just for journal’s sake, but if anyone is familiar with Greek mythology; or if anyone simply has some experience with lying and would like to voice the moral side; I would enjoy hearing either.

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/22042506/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/22042506/ Thu, 18 Dec 2008 01:13:43 PST A Christmas Carol. Not that the songs aren't lovely, but the fifth loop at Starbucks begins to thicken and slow a bit. Excellent choice of dialogue! Bully I say! Bully!

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/21690599/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/21690599/ Wed, 26 Nov 2008 23:49:38 PST Twilight and... well I guess I shouldn't be surprised. With a name representing so many of my favourite scents/colours/temperatures/textual aestheticism and a main character played by my only cinematic crush since elementary school, I had no choice but to invest some bias before the movie even started. But it repaid, tenfold.

I loved the production! So many details seemed placed in a scene the way one would only try to trap for a perfect pelt. So much dialogue seemed like it had to be genuine from the book: those clandestine words that subconsciously build character better than any narrative. And my god, how perfect Kristen was for Bella's character.

We got to talking about it on the way home and even my sterile-hearted brother had to say he liked it. My aunt, whom I watched the movie with in addition to the rest of our families but who hardly ever sees me in person, said on the way home that she really liked the renderings from the book and added something along the lines of, "where Edward says 'I'm going to hell anyway...' he had a Doug smile like that one he always does from one side of his mouth." So of course now I am doting like a schoolboy for the comparison. Jeez I'm rambling. I'll just give that one to Twilight as well

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/21431556/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/21431556/ Tue, 11 Nov 2008 01:58:24 PST
The other day in World Literature we were assigned to read the Japanese compendium (I guess?) called The Pillow Book. Basically this thing is a lady of the court's private journal which would later be published because people found it and told her that her views were noteworthy. What I really loved about the book were its tones. The author would be sometimes jealous, sometimes sarcastic, and sometimes genuinely complaining, but there was always this honesty in her writing. Even though she kept a formal structure, you could tell (before she began writing otherwise, that is) that she was not appealing to an audience, but rather writing for no other study than her Self. It was liberating, and kind of comforting, if for no other reasons than the ways I can relate. And that's the point of a book, is it not? In writing there is no greater imagery than that which pulls memories directly from a reader's mind.

I was a little displeased with how easy it was for my classmates to mistake the absence. But, to finally return to the title of the journal, I totally cheated and plagiarised myself, using my "Seduced" journal as one excerpt for my pillow bookish motif. In addition to being so long-winded it fulfilled the weekly assignment's girth in near-entirety, she commented that it was probably the most genuine of the fictional journals to be turned in, haha.



And as a personal note, I had a good dream yesterday. In my dream, a very important question was answered when someone I hadn't seen or heard in a long time came. There's some duplicity still in the shear vividness of it, but that's not what's important. Now I'm happy. Really - it could just be temporary, but I am. See? I even made a mood-emote for it. It was a good answer.

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/21180261/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/21180261/ Mon, 27 Oct 2008 00:43:46 PDT
For my understanding of daydreaming, there's nothing truly aloof about that. I think, however, it's irrational. No, not for the obvious reasons, or at least I say it falls under the reasons which may seem developmental to you, those you first realized in the idle time of your teething.

Here is my logic, and I will use an analogy close to home. When two people are in a steady relationship and suddenly along comes the antagonist with salsa hips or Adonis locks to steal your beloved away, it is not actually a seduction away from you. There are two parts to this. First is the seduction away from stability; when what he/she has with you is no longer ethically acceptable, a loss of interest - this is a seduction by the self, upon the self; like a magnet becoming neutral of its charge before changing or recharging again. They are gradually losing interest. Not until even a spark remains (and yeah, I'm an awful person for using that) can the second begin. The second seduction is the one we all hear of in soap operas, the one which involves the most tired rephrasing of 1950's romances (or something the paraphrasing of those) and ultimately results with that twinkle in the eye and enough "my, you are glowing," comments to make an Oil of Olay commercial sound genuine. I propose, they will always be separate and unrelated, no matter how suave Enrico is.

Essentially, it's free will vs fate. The first seduction comes long before the first, and I would bet it's seeded somewhere in there when the relationship first sprouts. Like fate, it is only a matter of time when its cycle starts, which I'll now tie in to my example. I think my daydreaming is quite pointless. Long ago, probably a week before I left for New York, my mother met me in the kitchen and asked why I wanted to go to which I told her that it was something I really enjoy. When I asked her why it seemed strange, her reply was simply, "I always thought you would be a writer." With my landing in New York as catalyst to send my system into shock, I had already begun assessing everything I had in order to survive. By that point, I think, I had already begun falling away.



Oh, and on my writer's block journal: apparently patience is a very good thing in editing

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/20878182/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/20878182/ Tue, 07 Oct 2008 17:21:22 PDT
I feel exhausted. No, that's not really true. It's more like annoyed, but I would not choose so cruel a word either. It is a feeling that makes someone prattle on about his feeling rather than take the time to define it. Ok so that was about as productive as guh but that's exactly the problem!

I stopped my serious editings three days ago. The latest project was a brush to clean my characters' expressive actions on the advisement that the dialogue had not achieved the desired effect (quite the opposite, in fact!) And it was going well. My extendings and explanations were actually adding beauty to their scene, which was surprising to my style. Each edit was just in its discretion. But then I stopped.

I started to wonder what it was worth. Of the critics to have seen the piece, no one has shown an interest in the ideals. I of course received compliments in wonder to the hermit shell that is my lifestyle of holycrapwhendidyouevenwritethisit'sprettylong and the kind to specific excerpts that were good. Which, because I know she will read this, were very lovely and probably the sole reason of the aforementioned editings.

It's selfish, but I want more. I wish to know that there is purpose in my pen. I want a friggin /pat on my personal head and a heartfelt assessment of my book's ideals too. I hate that I would feel such a need. It undermines my independent and my Hellenic structures that I could be so easily vulnerable.

But in my defense, maybe it's not so strange. It could be Greek heroism, that I should need the consent of the good to fight. Then again it could be what is modernly called bipolar disorder. But Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain) was bipolar, so it's alright either way... right?

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/20673345/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/20673345/ Thu, 25 Sep 2008 17:11:14 PDT
Today in literature the objectivity of Homer's The Odyssey came into play. Like most great art, its authenticity was in question due to... well as many reasons as one person can find when trying to discredit another. The most recent speculation is that The Odyssey may have actually been written by a woman.

Would it matter? Aside from the fact that women are equal in every facility aside from functioning nipples and the like, the Greeks are one of the few societies to recognize their equality in at least some fields (Sappho, anyone?) Homer has not had a mouth that could speak in about 2800 years, and although I would stake my life that it could make such a speech, it cannot now defend itself. So, if his The Iliad were simply a retelling finally earning its weight in ink, or if The Odyssey were actually written by a woman, what would it matter? The Iliad proves his worth in metaphor, image, sequence, and discipline a hundred times over. He is, without a doubt, eras beyond his time. Not until... Shakespeare would someone be able to explain the legend for the man as artistically as he did - in just The Iliad alone.

But people want surface value; they want nonfiction. To understand the artist is as important as understanding their art, to them. They watch Spike Lee films until they find out he's a sellout. They love Opra's 'improvement' books until she discovers the recovering drug addict embellished his incarceration; then they share her outrage. Oscar Wilde once said in the preface of a literary classic, The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To create art and conceal the artist is the artist's aim.
They think Oscar Wilde "sucked anyway."
(Yeah, obviously they are no student of rhetoric)

To impart a bit of anecdote from Wilde's theory: it is not the artist's intent to write their book like they play the phone game, rehearsing a chapter to a friend, who tells it to another friend, and another, until only the artist's idea remains. The artist cannot write what he does not know, though he can write pages on what he barely knows. No one can take their individuality away from a heartfully written page. To reflect words onto a page is to meet the self. There is no need to find the author.

Look at the pathos of it. This person made denotation of his reputation, slaved long and hard gaining carpal-tunnel for an idea that he/she wanted to be separate, to mature. In every case but nonfiction, their life is irrelevent. It is an insult to the artist, when you accept that their art should be dependent still upon its maker; that its ideas cannot hold ground and its feet, like the infant, would struggle without knowing that the artist spent two years in Japan sponging his bedridden aunt. It corrupts a value fought for by measurement of millennia. To say a piece of art, written or brushed, is anything more than a well described moment is idealism against the artist.

Which returns to the simplest cause: it is not a form of autobiography! The reflection was for the artist alone; to the third party, it is bits of light-stained glass which can either be admired or grasped harder together. To seek further identity is only a matter of personal intrigue. It is a means of social enlightenment and perhaps personal betterment. It is not a means of literary relation. Know your artist by their name and by their words (or medium). Meet them in their every world, but let them stay out of yours.

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/19764178/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/19764178/ Mon, 04 Aug 2008 04:20:44 PDT
They turned out to be pretty funny. The sense of poetry is just SO bad. I made metaphor without meta and, apparently, actually strived for a certain ethos of emo. Not that my cleverness has improved, much. But these journals... wow. There is just so much desparation and idealistic ardour. If I ever ran out of emotion or wonder in my writing, I think I would find a service from these.



And an odd observation: I've watched more television series on my computer than all the TV I've watched in probably 6 years. Not that it's a hard thing - just kind of amusing

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/19281679/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/19281679/ Tue, 08 Jul 2008 21:00:24 PDT
I went about it wrong. The brine is so much stronger in me. It is not all a bad thing, of course, but the force by which I clung to an ideal has steeped it so long in a bite of mustard seed. So bitter am I, I cannot recognize a beloved for their happiness, only fraud; only ugly, pseudo-hippie sex. So proven my putrescence, I would not, now, even dare to pursue the opportunity I wait a Life for. I am terror. I am what is called in story as monster, cyclops, beast. A very court official of the vanity I've mocked.

And I wrote journals to cover it just as I did poetry. Each word asking a further bitterness, and I entertained to make paragraphs: anything that would replace the harsh purity. -Which I in turn had to cover up with another journal, only to remain unsatisfied. But this is it. There isn't a journal that can cover up this... undiluted parable. I know; I feel; I am somehow certain, this is what I have always ran from.

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/19139553/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/19139553/ Tue, 01 Jul 2008 03:38:27 PDT
Better yet, I say artists should be entirely classified and absolved by all forms of media. This is due to the human act of relation between artist and art; the need, through some wondrously-fucked form of artistic osmosis, to demystify what was written for a school of mystification. To critique art is to look at the piece as a mirror, etching your own face from the reflection onto the pad beside it. What you see will always be from you, not the artist. So says philosophers who've wasted their life in the philosophy of words (insert useless cite) and literary analysts who did the same and called it diction (another useless cite).

I think a lot of that comes from Wilde's beautiful preface, as seen introducing The Picture of Dorian Gray or here [link]

Which luckily transitions me back on topic! Through my years of school I've read biographies on people I didn't necessarily like as well as those I did, including Wilde, Yeats, and Shakespeare. I think the reason I wasn't soiled by them is because they have all lived relatable lives and written things therefor relatable. But recently I up on Tolkien. I knew this guy got inspiration from Norse mythology like Beowulf and such, but damnit man! The things I could say would be blasphemy! (not to mention hypocritical because of my last blog, ha!) Entire plot twists, character histories, and lore? The idea itself for the ring?

There is so much exposure for Tolkien because of his achievements and his intellectual esteem. I remember, last year, reading some of his letters when a book on poetry etiquette mentioned him, one of which discussed his dislike for the use of allegory. But I really can't see how anything after The Hobbit in his LotR trilogy can be reflected to anything other than allegory after reading his WWI involvement and mythological integration. I love anyone who brings fable and myth of European culture into the mainsteam but... gah! I am tainted!

On a side note, I need to stop ranting alone. All of this pent up sociality is making me sound like a bitter 50 year old British uncle.

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/19024510/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/19024510/ Tue, 24 Jun 2008 16:51:05 PDT Hamlet, and someone could come along and demystify such a beauty in the form of: tragedy, betrayal, family mistrust, love as a catalyst, self-destruction in the final scenes, and continue even further. Suddenly any work which features two of many elements can look uncomfortably familiar to Hamlet.

So which will remain? In the age of copyright, media, and networks focused around plagiarist scrutiny: the first. In an older age, and a little still in this one, there was no question. The greater artist was just that, nothing more. Many of Shakespeare's plays were based on fable, like the Hystorie of Hamblet, also the woes of a prince from Denmark, but this was a crude, unrefined work in comparison. These fables all were nothing like the flow and power of word which Shakespeare had. Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, Raymond Carver; throughout these centuries of literature, the names of almost every writer worth a damn receives accusation from friends, and often evidence, of stolen works.

Consider the process of learning. To condition yourself to write and form thought, you wrote what was already available and you mimicked what had already been thought. If you were to write a story - 10,000 words right now, you would probably see a plot, characters, and conflict identifiable to whatever you have seen on TV in the last month. If you don't watch TV - a book. If you don't read - the current happenings at work. That's the way your mind wants to work. And why not?

Every trade is about producing the best possible product for your public. It's sort of like fate, in artistic form: just because it's been said, doesn't mean that the world doesn't need a better one. As much as I despise quotings, because I like to think I'm the exception to all of this (and I'm not particularly in love with him,) as T.S. Eliot says, "Bad poets borrow, good poets steal."



And this is the rant I've been waiting to make for years, watching as people exaggerate plagiarism on dA. When you care about making money on your product, when it actually matters, you'll see that people will still back you if you're worth it. If not, it wasn't meant to be.

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/18655770/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/18655770/ Wed, 04 Jun 2008 03:24:55 PDT
This guy has been of the best among friends since my junior year in high school and the source of endless counsel. He has always been the most capable of my friends at being apathetic and misogynistic and a general antagonist to my romanticism. Pretty much, he was jaded at a young age and vented through sexual activity until a couple of years ago. Any real-life friends on here probably know who I'm talking about, and anyone else reading can probably tell by the amount of foreshadow that he's become an absolute sap over the week. It's hilarious. His feelings are pouring out through emotionalist dribble, each line worthy of bad poetry.

I'm not gonna lie, I've got a little sensation in my left temple from it all. A little moonlit frost. A little musing to mania. It makes me want to live a little vicariously and call down some cupid, but that would go against my beliefs of love being the closest we humans get to divinity. He's going to be moving away soon and I can't even start to feel sad for it.

Anyway, enough pathos for now. The Meadow finally published after some disagreement in the printing involving the recycling of many boxes, each full of laminated covers. The first and second place poems were terrible, but modern literature pretty much gets a big /sigh from me in general. We have some Campbell McGrath in there, just because my professor was taught by him and they've stayed fairly good acquaintances. This means when I feel vain and the ego I hold so dear is threatened, I can just say I've been published next to Campbell McGrath. Totally.

And finally a warm thank you to all who are aiding in editing. Though I say it personally, you are an immense help for everything you say, in your black text as well as your white

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/17852969/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/17852969/ Mon, 14 Apr 2008 17:20:26 PDT
The good news is: I am almost ready to actively seek critics/publishers. So for all of the lovely people on my friends list and even you, random passerby, I need you! If you like to criticize poetry or prose, enjoy new material, if you like the fictional genre of magic realism or aestheticism; even if you're just looking for mild entertainment in the black of a textual character send me a note! The only thing I ask (aside from your minimal respect of viewing) is that you be as honest as cruelty permits.

I will need criticism in the areas of:
Horizontal movement (how the story flows and reinforces itself in plot, character, appearance)
Vertical movement (the levels by which the characters become emotions become morals become philosophies, that kinda thing)
Style and voice (the consistency of narrative and execution of such idolatry elements as alliteration, kenning, and meter when appropriate)
And of course the generals of anything that appeals or bores you.

I shouldn't need more than a week. And, although I definitely would less-than-three the scrutiny of the above, just hearing the general comments is pleasureful. Send me a note if you're interested and include your email if I don't have it.

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/17478304/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/17478304/ Sun, 23 Mar 2008 16:20:05 PDT
We appreciate your submission to our magazine. We are happy to announce The MEADOW would like to accept your poems "Through Your Eyes" and "Letter to the Sponsor" for inclusion in our next issue due out late spring 2008.

4 poems: 2 unrevised open-verse, 1 fair quality formal lyric, 1 nice sonnet. What do they choose? The two friggin' open-versed.

I am grateful. I really am. I didn't expect one poem to be published, let alone two. It's a thing of vanity that I wished my first published poem would have been a formalist piece. I'm just irritated that those damned open-versed corporate fatcats can't accept variety! The Man is oppressing me and my friend, Poetry. Damn The Man; c'mon say it with me!

Ok, now that I'm done mocking myself, here's the bio I'm thinking of. It's written in iambic foot just to spite them for not accepting my formalism -_-

Born of a smaller town in California, Doug Schmierer grew in the valley, just beside the meadow of Truckee. As a journalist’s grandson, Doug enjoyed the composure of words from a young age and attends TMCC as an aspiring author and freshman.

The thing I don't like about it is that it doesn't really show any motivation for writing or where I really come from in spirit. But it's probably the best I can get. The bio is limited to 50 words, and my professor wants me to mention that I go to TMCC as some semblance of pride.

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/17358248/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/17358248/ Sun, 16 Mar 2008 06:31:01 PDT
I figured I would provide a guide to meter for any interested. I've noticed a lot of my fellow classmates don't have a clue what meter is and it is either neglected or equally foreign to the inspirational waters of dA. So here is my attempt; a newbie's guide for newbies on meter (I'm probably stepping on some copyrights with that one, mwahaha.)

A meter, commonly referred to in singular as a 'foot' of a poem, is a syllabic stress which falls on a spoken word. An example is iambic pentameter.
Iambic refers to the foot used (an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed)
Pentameter refers to the number of stresses in the line. Penta meaning five, and meter synonymous to foot, as we covered.
Not that complex, right? Everything else is just an aesthetic variation on that.
There is trochee (stressed followed by unstressed), spondee (two stressed, kind of difficult to use well unless you're Tennyson) and pyrrhic (the opposite, two unstressed)
Hexameter=6 stresses, so (usually) 12 syllables. Do the math for trimeter, tetrameters, etc.

In the most formalist form of iambic pentameter:
each line appears as such, with stress follow'd
by every that is not, up to the end.
Anything with an -ed suffix is commonly chopp'd as such, because in the most formalist sense, almost every word back in the day was said like: bless-ed be, he who cleave-ed my tree. Nowadays there's not too much confusion for it, but sometimes the opposite is true and people intentionally stress the -ed; ie blessèd be, he who cleavèd my tree. The reason for this: easy syllables, mostly. If you want to keep a classical iambic foot with past-tense words, it's easy to work around. The same is true for words ending in "ly" "y" or starting in "un" (and of course other prefixes and suffixes).

I've probably alienated most of the audience by now. But for all ye faithful, here's what it means. Meter is meant for spoken words. In the time of Greek poets and Norse bards, the literacy rate was like 1 to 100. Stories were spoken - or if they were a really great story, they were sung. Say any sentence out loud. Chances are, you can't recognize the stresses yet. Write the words of that spoken sentence down, now look up each of those words on dictionary.com. Ever wonder what the apostrophe in the pronunciation key meant? Or the bold letters of some? That is the universal way of telling what syllable is stressed. Of course, because we're going for spoken words and not written ones, the real key lies in the poet's voice. (At this point I would like to add, if you haven't heard a poet read his writing, you're really missing out. When the arts were profound, there were entire schools in Ireland and other places called "bard schools" devoted entirely to the diction and voice of every word.) A poet can sometimes manipulate the stress of his words by changing the suffix or prefix or even just by the placement of it. Ignore these apostrophes for now.
The word 'is' passive, but it 'is' now strong
By placing the word inside a foot, the reader will commonly accept that it is meant to be stressed and, when reading out loud, stress it so. Inversely, if read out loud, the listener would understand where stress falls.

Lastly, the 'modern formalist.' Meter is commonly coupled with rhyme. This originated back in the days of Greece and Rome when words were artful in themselves and just about anything could be rhymed. This also provided a subliminal way of the poem to be remembered - both in the poet's head and any passerby to jingle. In the present, there are two types of poetry considered formalist that do no follow this. "Open verse" is a poem written in meter without rhyme. It's as simple as it sounds. I did this in a poem [temporarily titled] "About A Sunrise 2". In this style, stress is still rhythmic and refined, but rhymes are not allowed (or at least frowned upon by formalists.) The other style is one similar to classic formalism. Rhymes are followed and meter is followed, but foot is not. The implication of this is that: a line will still have (for example) five stresses.
The dog and cat were mauled to their last breath.
Not exactly the best example, but the emphasis is on principle. In that style, a line of pentameter may have eleven syllables or more.

And with that, I'm going to release some caffeine-induced endorphins to soak my head. Cya after spring break, with any luck, as an author. Any encouragement or corrections are of course welcome ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/17096453/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/17096453/ Wed, 27 Feb 2008 21:48:36 PST
I submitted "She Muses From A Mortal Bed" just before the Meadow's deadline. My English/poetry teacher (who's a huge inspiration despite the fact that I'm going to bash him later) happens to be one of the reader/first judges for what makes it past the first submission. One day after class we spoke about what the process is like and he told me that my poem "Through Your Eyes" had made it into the 200 to be chosen from. I couldn't figure out what the bleep was the matter with my other poetry. Though I hadn't revised Mortal Bed, and therefor didn't expect it to get far, I knew it was at least better than my open. Also, I had given a few revisions to my sonnet and was quite pleased.

So I signed up for workshop and brought "She Muses From A Mortal Bed" into class a week later to test the waters. Normally I go with my open crap, for the sake of not appealing to the masses. The results I got were abhorring. Some of the most memorable are; "Who is 'she?'" and "You have bed in the title but you never mention it later" and one went so far as to say "Some of your words don't rhyme. You need consistency."

/headdesk.

I shook that off, but I guess it started to take on me more than I thought. The more open-verse we read in class, the more discriminating I read each. One poem, which we had read the previous semester in creative writing, heaved an involuntary scoff the second I put it down. It's hard to believe it's the same poem. Last semester I it was pretty damned witty but I guess now it only tingles the depths of my ugliest competitorial ego.

So Open Casket is, among other things, inspired by a poem called "Responsibility of a Metaphor" in which Tony Hoagland goes on for about 20 lines of solid puns using one, single, god damned metaphor AND IT'S NOT IN METER. But it's mostly just the fact that I'm sick of bad open-verse. Some would say that formalism is dead. That's cool - but open-verse is publicly killing modern poetry.

]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/16334900/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/16334900/ Wed, 09 Jan 2008 18:51:05 PST
I still have time to submit to that magazine. I should probably get a decent formalist poem in. I doubt I'll be taking any prizes in open verse considering how I detest it so

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]]> ~SaporousSerenade http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/15333268/ http://SaporousSerenade.deviantart.com/journal/15333268/ Fri, 02 Nov 2007 15:17:16 PDT oh well.

School has been mostly enjoyable. We got into poetry, in my Creative Writing class. My teacher is an open verse freak, but he has proposed some piercing points that inadvertently have made me do a /headdesk to some of my poetry. I really should do some revisions, one day. But for now I'm working on about four different pieces - it's pretty unraveling at times.

I took down Redskytonight. I may put it back up later, but for now, it's down.

I've had weird dreams involving school. It switches between high school and FCI, but it's always the same conflict. At first I would wake up as though from a nightmare, with my mind still half in the dream, panicked that I need to go back to school because I never finished. Now the dreams are still there, rotating between high school and FCI, but when I wake up the feeling is more of an annoyance; that my mind is trying to send me a message. It feels like inadequacy. It feels better when I talk that I met in New York, and when I spoke to my high school teacher, but no matter what I feel consciously, my unconscious mind has a mind of its own.

Maybe this is why people enjoy seeing their high school friends? Maybe I should get a job...

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